THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


GIFT  OF 

JAUBS  J.  MC  BRIDE 


^ 


BARNACLES 


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BARNACLES 

BY 

J.    MACDOUGALL    HAY 

AUTHOB  OF  'OIIXESFIE' 


NEW    YORK 
GEORGE    H.    DORAN    COMPANY 


Printed  in  Great  Britain 


TO 


JOHN    ADAMS 


712374 


BOOK  I 


Beside  a  tattered  gate  half  unhinged,  at  the  foot  of  a 
dishevelled  farm-garden  in  the  uplands  of  Renfrew- 
shire, stood  a  lonely  figure  gazing  over  the  roofs  of 
Paisley  at  Ben  Lomond.  The  mountain  loomed  out 
of  the  mist  with  the  air  of  a  man  bowed  with  age,  as 
if  in  the  midst  of  the  gloom  and  silence  it  had  grown 
weary  of  the  skies. 

Winter  was  about  to  break  up  her  camp  in  the  dawn, 
and  go  stealing  like  a  ghost  through  the  mists  into  the 
North. 

In  that  moment  Paisley,  far  down  in  the  valley 
beneath,  was  to  the  watcher  at  the  gate  a  town  of 
apparitions,  a  place  of  some  strange  dream. 

As  he  gazed  with  wonder  in  his  eyes  footsteps  were 
heard  coming  along  the  road — the  heavy  tread  of  a  man 
who,  but  lately  risen  from  a  warm  bed,  was  not  yet 
awake  to  the  urgency  of  affairs  while  day  was  yet  dark 
in  the  sky.  Out  of  the  fog  the  ghost  man  came,  passed 
on  in  silence  without  seeing  the  figure  at  the  gate,  and 
was  swallowed  up. 

The  hoar  darkness,  the  severe  magnificent  mountain, 
the  phantom  town,  the  ghostly  man,  were  dreams  in  a 
dream  to  the  lad  at  the  gate. 

'  I  never  thought  the  world  could  be  so  unearthly,' 
he  said  aloud.     A  wind  blew  west  from  the  sea  and 


4  BARNACLES 

carried  inland  a  savour  of  healing  salt  through  the 
mirk.  It  made  the  gate  creak  and  swing.  The  sound 
aroused  the  lad.  He  tugged  at  a  rope  in  his  hand,  and 
he  and  his  companion  moved  away,  vanishing  also  like 
ghosts  in  the  mist  and  darkness. 

His  father,  Dauvit  o'  the  Battlemains,  a  shrewd, 
peevish  little  man  with  a  grey  torpedo  beard  and  a 
quick,  restless  eye,  had  some  local  repute  from  an 
idiosyncrasy  he  had  of  giving  his  children  Biblical 
names.  Spanning  the  earth  as  far  as  Babylon,  he 
called  his  first-born  Telassar  Brocklehurst,  whom  he 
sent  out  into  the  world  saying,  '  I  've  gien  ye  a  braw 
bouncin'  name  ;  mak  the  maist  o't ;  it 's  enough  to 
bring  ye  to  the  gallows  or  to  a  fortune.' 

Benjamin  froqa  of  old  was  a  hostage,  and  fate  still 
looked  sourly  on  the  name.  It  belonged  to  him  who 
had  walked  into  the  mist.  He  had  a  complexion 
studded  with  fiery  little  knobs,  and  from  the  days  of 
his  first  trousers  was  nicknamed  Barnacles.  He  was 
now  very  taU,  loose-knitted,  had  a  gawky  air,  and  went 
with  a  stoop.  But  his  eyes  behind  the  spectacles  which 
he  wore  were  as  blue  as  the  spaces  in  a  red  sunset  sky. 

Mr.  Brocklehurst,  his  father,  was  a  farmer  not  by 
profession  but  by  marriage.  This  indicates  his  char- 
acter. He  was  a  byword  for  meanness.  He  was  a 
dairy-farmer  or  *  cowfeeder,'  driving  his  mUk  nine 
miles  into  Paisley  every  morning,  and  delivering  it  to 
a  dairy.  All  his  sons,  to  the  number  of  four,  had 
Worked  on  the  farm.  Three  were  now  married  and 
lived  on  the  land,  one  Kilmacolm  way,  one  in  Fife,  and 
one  *  ayont  Kilmarnock.'  Benjamin  was  also  being 
brought  up  to  the  graip  when  he  fell  under  notice  of  the 
Laird.     He  was  entered  at  Glasgow  University,  made 


BARNACLES  5 

good  progress  there  in  his  first  session,  and  during  the 
second  met  with  catastrophe.  He  was  standing  up  in 
the  Greek  class-room,  a  gaunt  swaying  figure,  con- 
struing a  portion  of  Pindar  indifferent  well.  There 
were  reasons  for  this.  His  shoes  had  needed  re-soling. 
He  took  them,  wrapped  in  brown  paper,  to  the  vUlage 
cobbler.  This  Irishman  of  middle  age,  with  black 
bettling  eyebrows  and  a  square  head  a  little  awry  from 
long  habit  of  eyeing  his  work  sideways,  mended  shoes 
and  watches,  repaired  bicycles  and  motor  bicycles, 
sold  eyeglasses,  manufactured  violins  and  played  the 
same.  Barnacles  found  him  in  the  middle  of  *  Kate 
O'Shane.' 

When  the  tune  was  ended  Barnacles  said,  '  I  should 
like  to  be  able  to  play  the  fiddle,  Mr.  Docherty.' 

'  If  that 's  on  your  mind,  me  bhoy,  sure  I  'U  tache  ye, 
if  ye  be  the  way  of  leamin'  me  to  read  the  music' 

Mr.  Docherty,  so  deficient  in  the  fundamentals  that 
he  could  not  tune  the  violin,  nevertheless  taught 
Barnacles  that  day  to  play  a  scale  on  the  open  string. 

'  I  'U  buy  your  fiddle,'  said  Barnacles,  flushed  with 
mastery.  The  Irishman,  in  arrears  to  his  landlady, 
agreed  to  sell. 

'  It 's  the  bow  an'  the  case,  the  rosate  an'  the  fiddle 
I  '11  be  lettin'  ye  have  for  five  shillins  ;  it 's  the  sort  of 
fiddle  that  will  cheer  ye  up  when  all  the  world 's  cryin' ; 
there 's  nothin'  like  a  fiddle,  me  bould  bhoy,  for 
kapeing  a  whisker  off  a  man.' 

Barnacles  spent  a  series  of  evenings  with  Mr. 
Docherty,  until  he  discovered  that  the  Irishman's 
tongue  prevented  him  from  swallowing  the  theory  of 
music.  Thereafter  Barnacles,  the  fiddle,  and  Hemy's 
Tutor  consorted  in  the  f  orenight  in  the  bam,  *  Pindar  * 


C  BARNACLES 

languished,  and  Barnacles  was  at  sea  before  the  eyes 
of  the  Professor  of  Greek. 

*  Who  taught  you  Greek  ?  '  roared  that  spartan. 

*  The  village  schoolmaster.' 

*  He  is  no  scholar  then.' 

*  Please,  sir,'  stammered  Barnacles, '  he  is  a  gentleman.' 
The  class  showed  its  approval. 

*  Speak  to  me  at  the  end  of  the  hour,'  said  the 
Professor. 

Barnacles  omitted  to  speak. 

Now  the  Professor  was  a  friend  of  the  Laird,  over 
whose  estate  he  slew  God's  creatures  with  a  gun. 
Barnacles  received  a  communication  from  the  Castle, 
inviting  him  to  attend  in  person  and  give  informa- 
tion touching  the  public  insult  to  the  Professor  of 
Greek. 

Barnacles  had  a  tender  heart  but  an  independent 
mind.  He  wrote  briefly,  defending  the  fair  name  of 
Mr.  Gerrard,  the  schoolmaster,  and  adding  that  if  the 
Laird  wished  to  inquire  further  he  knew  where  the 
writer  could  be  found. 

Barnacles'  career  at  the  University  was  finished. 

During  the  remainder  of  that  winter  he  worked  on 
the  farm  without  wages.  Mr.  Brocklehurst,  on  being 
asked  for  one  pound  sterling,  became  ironic. 

'  Hauf  an  oor  o'  a  guid  sun  is  worth  mair  on  the 
ferm  than  a  week  o'  your  puir  fushionless  idlin'.' 

Barnacles  thought  his  father  said  '  son,'  and  was 
grieved  at  the  heartless  comparison  between  him  and 
his  brother.  And  he  had  need  of  the  pound  sterling  to 
buy  a  better  fiddle.  The  Irishman's  was  worn  to  a 
squeak.  Wherefore  we  find  this  ardent  musician 
attached  to  one  of  his  father's  sheep  by  a  rope,  and  both 


BARNACLES  7 

about  to  take  the  road  from  the  tattered  gate  to  the 
market  at  Paisley,  before  the  day  broke  to  call  up 
Mr.  Brocklehurst  and  his  milk-c^  on  the  same  road. 


II 

The  silence  of  the  earth  and  the  majesty  of  the 
ghostly  mountains  looming  up  across  the  Clyde  like  the 
first-born  of  the  dawn  fiUed  Barnacles'  soul  with  awe. 

'  Little  one,'  he  said  to  his  companion,  '  you  and  I 
are  God's  poor  waifs.' 

As  his  companion  made  no  answer,  Barnacles  ad- 
dressed himself  to  take  the  road  whose  dim  face  went 
stealing  northwards  into  the  greyness.  As  he  put  out 
his  foot  to  take  his  first  step,  the  thought  came  to  him 
that  his  life  was  about  to  go  on  an  adventure.  He 
looked  down  the  road  that  climbs  the  hiUs  and  leans 
upon  the  quays  where  the  ships  of  the  nations  come. 
He  was  about  to  mingle  with  it,  and  along  with  it  go 
towards  the  barred  doors  of  the  unknown.  He  cast 
one  glance  behind  at  the  darkling  house,  gave  the  rope 
a  tug  and  set  off,  addressing  the  sheep,  '  Poor  wee  one, 
we  are  adrift ;  what  the  evening  will  bring  is  uncertain.' 

As  he  rose  the  first  hiU,  the  wind  of  Spring  bearing 
moHoing  melodies  from  the  Gleniffer  Braes  received 
him  roguishly  and  blew  away  his  sadness.  It  was  a 
good  wind  for  his  escapade.  The  time  that  is  not 
winter  neither  is  spring  was  over — ^those  heavy  brooding 
days  sodden  with  the  dregs  of  winter  under  a  lowering 
sky.  Barnacles  could  almost  hear  the  chains  of  ice 
faU  off  the  earth  and  the  manacles  of  frost  snap  asunder 
as  the  redeemer  came,  a  shining  wind  full  of  the  sap 


8  BARNACLES 

of  living  things.  Barnacles  felt  this  salt  west  wind 
that  had  been  wooed  by  orchards  in  some  far  valley 
of  whirring  wings,  and  he  began  to  whistle  and  to 
shout,  '  Can  an  anchor  keep  its  hold  upon  thee  whom 
thine  own  home  could  not  keep  from  wandering.' 
The  sheep,  also  perhaps  feeling  the  pungency  of  spring, 
took  little  runs  and  darts  all  over  the  road.  It  was 
likely  scenting  the  tender  green  about  to  burst  from 
its  lair  of  hibernation.  The  various  hopes  of  youth 
and  beast  clashed. 

'  Come  on,  you  foolish  nibbler,'  cried  Barnacles, 
'  before  a  rescue  party  be  on  us.' 

The  sheep,  misled  by  a  green  piece  of  ribbon  dropped 
from  the  chocolate-box  of  a  pair  of  sweethearts  the 
night  before,  looked  up  at  Barnacles.  He  was  sure  it 
had  an  ironic  grin  on  its  black  face. 

*  Foolish  sheep,  do  hurry.  To-day  the  fiddle,  or 
never.     If  I  fail  I  wiU  bury  my  heart  in  the  farm.' 

The  mist  had  thinned  away,  and  from  where  he 
stood  he  looked  down  on  the  valley  of  the  Clyde 
spread  beneath  him  like  a  map.  He  turned  with  a 
pang  from  the  sight  of  Glasgow  University  to  Paisley's 
huddled  roofs  in  the  east  and  her  hundred  chimney 
stalks  now  standing  up  like  the  masts  of  a  naked  fleet. 
Smoke  was  beginning  to  cloud  the  valley  from  the 
populous  factories  and  engineering  shops  of  the 
Clydeside. 

'  Come,  come,  my  sheep,  I  think  we  have  the  whole 
wide  world  to  cross.' 

At  that  moment  the  sheep,  as  if  realising  the  gravity 
of  the  situation,  began  to  trot.  In  spite  of  his  eagerness 
to  follow,  Barnacles  was  filled  with  pity  when  he  heard 
the  pattering  of  the  hard  little  hoofs. 


BARNACLES  d 

*  My  poor  bleater,  you  hurry  only  to  die.  But  what 
can  I  do  ?  I  must  get  the  fiddle  or  I  shall  die  myself.' 
.  .  .  And  because  the  sheep  was  often  recalcitrant ; 
because  they  had  to  go  into  hiding  when  Mr.  Brockle- 
hurst  drove  by ;  and  because  the  sheep  tried  to 
drown  itself  in  Stanely  Loch,  it  was  the  slack  time 
of  the  afternoon  when  they  reached  Paisley  and  a 
policeman  yawning  in  the  Square. 


Ill 

Barnacles  was  not  a  man  of  afiFairs.  His  mind  all 
morning  was  lodged  in  a  musicseller's  shop  in  Paisley, 
but  he  did  not  know  where  the  cattle-market  was 
situate.  He  followed  the  sheep's  itinerary.  It  passed 
through  the  Square  into  the  seclusion  of  Dyers  Wynd, 
till  it  came  to  a  flight  of  stone  stairs  above  the  muddy 
Cart.  Bafiied,  it  returned  to  the  Square  and  began  to 
explore  Paisley.  Once  it  sought  entrance  to  a  public- 
house,  got  into  a  hole  in  the  ground  near  Back  Sneddon 
Street  where  some  men  were  laying  a  wire.  It  was 
ejected,  bleating.  It  got  in  the  way  of  tram-cars, 
dela;^g  the  traffic.  A  driver  dismounted  and  hit  it 
on  the  hoofs  with  his  driving  handle.  Barnacles  was 
hungry  and  dismayed.  Twice  they  had  plunged  across 
Paisley  Square.  The  second  time  the  sheep  betrayed 
that  it  was  also  hungry.  It  charged  the  shop  of  a 
florist  in  Moss  Street,  where  young  vegetable  plants 
were  displayed  in  little  wooden  boxes  at  the  door. 
The  sheep  began  to  browse,  and  Barnacles  watched, 
glad  that  his  feet  were  at  rest.  Presently  he  was 
conscious  of  an  angry  voice. 


10  BARNACLES 

*  What  are  you  doin'  here  wi'  that  bloomin'  sheep  ? 
This  is  no'  a  park.' 

'  I  don't  know,'  said  Barnacles  ;  '  we  're  lost.' 

*  Clear  out  or  ye  '11  get  lost  in  the  jyle.  Look  at 
the  mess  you  've  made  o'  thae  cabbage  plants.' 

*  I  'm  very  sorry,'  answered  Barnacles  ;  '  I  was  not 
aware  of  meddling  with  them.' 

'  Well !  your  sheep  did  ;  it 's  the  same  thing.' 

*  I  think  the  poor  beast  is  hungry,'  said  Barnacles. 
Before  the  shopkeeper  could  answer  the  sheep  made 

a  fresh  sally  at  the  succulent  greenlings. 

'Be  off !  be  off,  will  you  ! ' — ^the  angry  guardian 
kicked  the  sheep  in  the  snout. 

'  Don't  hurt  the  sheep,'  cried  Barnacles,  '  it 's  harm- 
less.' 

The  shopkeeper  was  almost  speechless  with  rage. 

*  Harmless  .  .  .  harmless  .  .  .  look  at  my  stock 
.  .  .  look  at  the  crowd  gathering.' 

Barnacles  looked. 

A  lot  of  people  were  hanging  in  the  offing.  They  were 
all  laughing.   Paisley  Square  had  become  a  play-ground. 

*  I  'll  no'  get  over  this  for  a  fortnight,'  the  shopkeeper 
was  crying.  » *  Get  out,  get  out.' 

*  What 's  a'  this  ;  what 's  ado  ? '  cried  an  authorita- 
tive voice  ;  and  the  keeper  of  the  Square  approached 
with  sinister  ponderousness. 

*  Looks  like  a  circus,'  some  one  said. 
The  crowd  laughed  again. 

The  shopkeeper  was  hopping  from  foot  to  foot,  ward- 
ing off  with  his  apron  playful  attacks  of  the  sheep. 

In  the  midst  of  this  confusion  it  occurred  to  Barnacles 
that  perhaps  after  aU  the  sheep  was  not  familiar  with 
the  way  to  the  market,  and  that  he  ought  to  inquire. 


BARNACLES  11 

Before  he  could  speak,  however,  a  question  was 
loudly  addressed  to  him.  '  Young  feUa  !  what  are  ye 
bouncin'  a'  over  Paisley  wi'  that  sheep  for  ?  ' 

*  Please,  where  is  the  market  ?  '  said  Barnacles, 
taking  off  his  spectacles  and  his  hat,  and  wiping  the 
sweat  from  his  brow. 

'  The  mercat ;  there  's  no  mercat  the  day.' 

*  Do  they  not  sell  sheep  every  day  ?  ' 

*  Are  ye  a  publican's  son  ?  ' 

*  No,'  answered  Barnacles  mystified,  '  why  do  you 
ask?  ' 

*  The  publicans  would  like  fine  a  mercat  every  day.' 
The  crowd  roared  at  this  sally. 

In  the  midst  of  the  laughter  could  be  heard  the 
scream  of  the  shopkeeper, '  Be  off !  be  off !  deil  tak  ye ! ' 
He  flounced  the  marauder  with  his  apron. 

'  And  when  is  the  market  ?  '  asked  Barnacles, 
without  paying  any  attention  to  the  sheep. 

'  Monday,  my  lad  :  ten  o'clock  by  the  Gark  Town 
Hall  nock.     This  is  Wednesday.' 

Bawiacles  looked  from  face  to  face  in  his  perplexity. 
The  sheep,  baffled  at  the  door,  was  tugging  in  the  direc- 
tion of  a  banana  skin  on  the  pavement. 

'  How  am  1  to  dispose  of  the  animal  ?  '  he  said 
stupefied. 

'  Tak  her  home,'  said  the  policeman  testily  (he  did 
not  like  the  dimensions  of  the  crowd),  '  and  mind  ye, 
don't  let  me  catch  ye  stravaigin'  aboot  here,  if  ye 
don't  want  ludgins  for  the  night.' 

'  I  'm  afraid  that 's  just  what  I  want,'  answered 
Barnacles  helplessly. 

'  March  now,'  said  the  policeman  sternly,  making  a 
menacing  gesture.    He  thought  Barnacles  had  joked 


12  BARNACLES 

at  his  expense,  and  the  laugh  of  the  crowd  was  turned 

against  him. 

Barnacles  ruefully  surveyed  the  sheep  a  moment. 
'  Let  us  go,'  he  said  ;  *  we  are  getting  famous.' 
The  sheep  and  Barnacles  went  off  in  the  direction  of 

the  banana  skin.     The  tide  of  Paisley  life  flowed  on 

again. 

IV 

Barnacles,  dragging  the  sheep,  passed  once  more 
across  the  Square.  The  sheep  tried  to  break  in  to  the 
toy  gardens  of  Dunn  Square,  lured  by  some  rhododen- 
drons there.  Barnacles  jerked  it  on,  and  they  drifted 
into  Abbey  Street.  In  the  quiet  here  Barnacles  realised 
that  he  was  tired,  and  tied  the  sheep  to  the  iron  railing 
that  bound  in  the  Abbey  graveyard.  The  sheep  sniffed 
through  the  bars  at  the*  sparse  grass,  but  finding  its 
snout  could  not  penetrate,  it  lay  down  on  the  pavement. 
Barnacles  sat  on  the  stone  wall  in  the  shadow  of  the 
famous  edifice  and  began  to  think.  He  could  not 
return  with  the  sheep  or  the  chance  of  his  fiddle  was 
gone  for  ever.  Once  lifted,  doubly  guarded  would  be 
Mr.  Brocklehurst's  outlook.  What  was  he  to  do  ? 
The  spring  sun  had  hidden  itself  as  if  in  mourning. 
Among  the  shadows  the  air  was  cold.  A  di'op  from 
Barnacles'  nose  fell  on  the  nose  of  the  sheep.  It  shook 
its  head,  twitched  its  ears,  and  looked  up. 

*  I  am  not  weeping,  woolly  one,'  said  Barnacles 
sadly,  '  but  if  you  and  I  do  not  part  company  soon,  I 
assure  you  I  soon  will  be.' 

Then  Barnacles  saw  a  policeman.  It  was  not  the 
same  one,  but  Barnacles  jumped  to  his  feet. 


BARNACLES  18 

*  Let  us  get  on,  poor  creature,  in  God's  name,'  he  cried. 

They  came  into  Bridge  Street,  where  the  town  seemed 
to  be  trying  to  escape  the  river  Cart,  which  hereabouts 
is  green  as  grass  with  chemicals.  On  they  went  past 
ancient  houses  with  crow-stepped  gables,  whose  eaves 
were  little  more  than  the  height  of  a  taU  man.  At 
the  end  of  one  of  these  streets  a  man  who  had  been 
talking  on  Socialism  to  a  street  congregation,  and  had 
passed  round  the  hat '  for  the  cause  of  the  propaganda,' 
was  counting  his  gains.  Barnacles,  who  heard  the 
chink  of  money,  went  towards  this  man. 

'  I  wiQ  sell  you  a  sheep,'  he  said. 

'  I  am  not  a  resetter,'  answered  the  man,  barely 
glancing  up  from  his  bank. 

'  The  sheep  is  not  stolen,'  said  Barnacles  indignantly. 

'  I  don't  deal  in  live  stock,'  the  answer  was  rapped 
out ;  '  go  to  a  flesher.' 

'  Why  didn't  I  think  of  that,'  cried  Barnacles  with 

joy- 

'  Young  man,'  said  the  orator,  as  if  he  were  addressing 
a  multitude,  '  humanity  is  divided  into  those  who  think 
and  those  who  don't,'  and  he  went  away  with  his  hat  on 
the  back  of  his  head,  chinking  the  money  in  his  pocket. 

Barnacles  eyed  the  sheep. 

'  Woolly  one,'  he  said,  '  humanity  and  sheep  are 
divided  into  those  who  have  a  lodging  and  those  who 
haven't.     Come  and  let  us  search  for  one.' 

They  continued  their  Odyssey,  Barnacles  looking  for 
a  flesher's  shop  ;  the  sheep,  mayhap,  for  a  florist's. 
Just  as  Barnacles  steered  the  sheep  out  of  the  track  of 
a  lorry  full  of  brand-new  cart  wheels,  he  saw  a  man 
walking  by  the  side  of  a  little  grey  pony,  which  was 
dragging  a  light  cart,  on  which  was  a  herring-box.     It 


14  BARNACLES 

was  a  grandmother  of  a  pony.  Its  harness  had  plainly 
been  made  for  a  horse,  for  it  hung  from  the  little  grey 
animal  as  a  father's  clothes  would  hang  on  his  seven- 
year-old  son. 

There  was  such  an  air  of  comradeship  between  the 
pony  and  its  master  that  Barnacles  went  forward 
towards  them.  They  all  stopped — men  and  animals 
both.     The  pony  bent  its  head  sniffing  at  the  sheep. 

'  Can  you  tell  me,  please,  where  the  nearest  flesher's 
shop  is  ;  I  want  to  sell  this  sheep.' 

The  man  with  the  pony  was  of  some  forty  years, 
had  a  ruddy  complexion  and  a  light  moustache.  His 
face  was  disfigured  by  a  long  weal  running  from  the  ear 
across  the  jaw  to  the  chin.  He  eyed  Barnacles  sharply 
and  nodded  to  the  sheep. 

'  Whaur  did  ye  fa'  in  wi'  the  beast  ?  ' 

'  I  brought  it  from  my  father's  farm  to-day.' 

*  Your  faither  ;  wha  's  he  ?  ' 

*  Mr.  Brocklehurst  is  his  name.' 

*  Never  h'ard  tell  o'  him.' 

*  I  am  not  astonished,'  answered  Barnacles;  *he  has 
not  acquired  any  fame.  As  I  am  hungry  and  tired, 
will  you  please  direct  me  to  a  flesher's  shop  ?  ' 

The  man  with  the  pony  was  scrutinising  the  sheep. 
It  was  standing  with  drooping  head  gazing  at  the 
pony's  feet. 

*  What  are  ye  seekin'  for 't  ?  '  he  asked  abruptly. 

*  One  pound.' 

*  Ye  '11  no  tak  less.' 

'  I  would,'  answered  Barnacles,  '  under  any  other 
circumstances,  but  there  is  a  violin  in  a  shop  in  the 
High  Street  which  I  want  to  buy,  and  it  costs  one 
pound.    I  cannot  sell  the  sheep  for  less.' 


BARNACLES  15 

*  Weel,  I  've  come  across  some  queer  jokers  in  my 
time,  but  you  're  special,'  he  said  laughing.  '  I  '11  tak 
ye  on.' 

*  Thank  you,'  said  Barnacles,  '  it  is  a  great  relief.' 

'  Ye  '11  hae  to  come  hame  wi'  me ;  I  haena  that 
muckle  siller  on  me.  Fish  is  scarce  an'  dear  ee  noo. 
I  tred  in  fish.' 

'  Very  well,'  answered  Barnacles,  *  let  us  hurry.' 

*  Gee-up,'  said  the  man  to  the  little  grandmother  pony. 
Side  by  side  they  walked,   men  together,   beasts 

together. 

Presently  Barnacles  said  :  '  I  have  a  favour  to  ask 
of  you.  This  poor  sheep  has  walked  a  long  way  to- 
day. Will  you  obhge  me  by  putting  it  into  your 
cart?' 

The  Kawker  stopped.     They  aU  stopped. 

*  WeU,  you  are  ripe !  might  as  well  put  the  sheep 
in  the  trams  an'  gie  the  powny  a  lift.' 

Nevertheless  something  in  Barnacles'  face,  like  the 
mute  pain  of  a  child,  caused  the  hawker  to  change  his 
mind,  and  the  sheep  was  lifted  into  the  cart.  It 
staggered  and  lay  down,  and  never  once  moved  during 
the  journey. 

Barnacles  gave  a  deep  sigh  of  relief. 

*  Good  little  pony,'  he  said,  and  patted  the  hard  hide 
that  was  galled  by  the  ill-fitting  harness. 

In  a  little  wooden  shed  in  a  courtyard  behind  a 
house  in  Cotton  Street  the  pony  was  stabled  and  the 
sheep  found  a  fold.    The  man  watered  and  fed  the  pony. 

*  Will  you  not,  please,  give  something  to  the  sheep  ? ' 
said  Barnacles  ;  '  she  must  be  starving.' 

'  What  for,'  asked  the  hawker  ;  '  she  'U  be  killed  the 
mom.' 


16  BARNACLES 

*  Do,  please,'  urged  Barnacles ;  *  you  can  keep  the 
value  of  it  o£E  the  pound.' 

The  hawker  threw  the  wearied  animal  a  bundle  of 
hay. 

'  I  am  so  glad  she  has  a  shelter  for  the  night  and 
with  a  companion.  She  is  accustomed  to  the  open 
fields,  and  might  have  been  iU  at  ease  in  a  stable 
alone.' 

*  Hach,'  answered  the  hawker,  *  sheep  don't  think 
Uke  that.  Ye  'U  spend  less  peety  when  ye  come  to 
forty  an'  hae  a  wean  to  feed.' 

Half  an  hour  later  Barnacles,  oiit  of  breath,  put 
down  a  handful  of  silver  and  copper  on  the  counter  of 
a  musicseller  in  the  High  Street. 

*  I  want  to  buy  the  violin,  in  the  window  marked 
one  pound,  but  I  have  only  nineteen  and  ninepence.' 

The  shopkeeper,  a  wizened  httle  man  with  grey 
mutton-chop  whiskers,  peered  at  him  over  his  spectacles 
and  shook  his  head. 

*  Business  is  business  ;   a  good  sound  instrument.' 

*  I  had  the  money,  but  I  gave  threepence  to  a  little 
boy  who  was  crying  with  the  toothache.' 

*  Weel !   weel !   ye  'U  no'  put  his  toothache  on  me.' 

*  But  I  must  have  the  violin,'  answered  Barnacles 
earnestly  ;  *  I  left  home  early  this  morning  to  buy  it.' 

*  Did  ye  sae  ;  an'  whaur  are  ye  frae  ?  * 

*  I  'm  from  Battlemains  ;  my  father  is  a  farmer 
there,' 

'  Weel !  weel !  ye  look  a  dacent  body  ;  it 's  no' 
everybody  in  the  Paisley  Philharmonic  would  walk  that 
far  for  a  fiddle.  I  'U  tak  your  word  on 't.  Ye  can  pay 
me  the  thruppence  the  next  time  ye  're  in  the  toon.' 

As    he    handed    Barnacles    the    parcel     he    said, 


BARNACLES  It 

*  Tak  care  ye  dinna  walk  ower  faur  some  day  for  a 
gee-gaw.' 

*  If  I  have  no  sheep  with  me,'  answered  Barnacles,  *  it 
does  not  matter.' 

The  dealer,  about  to  wipe  the  counter,  had  his  hand 
arrested.  Open-mouthed  he  peered  over  his  spectacles 
at  Barnacles  leaving  the  shop. 


The  sky  looked  as  brittle  as  crystal  and  the  stars 
seemed  floating  in  the  air,  for  the  frost  had  crept  back 
under  cloud  of  night.  Barnacles  looked  up  to  the  cold 
congregation  of  frost-bound  stars  glittering  overhead. 
He  was  hugging  the  violin  as  a  mother  clasps  her  first- 
bom  in  her  arms.  He  felt  neither  thirst  nor  hunger  nor 
the  fatigue  of  the  journey  as  he  looked  to  the  ancient 
lights  in  the  heavens.  All  was  beautiful  and  lofty, 
because  it  was  a  reflection  of  his  own  soul.  The 
vexation  of  the  long  day  vanished  in  that  overarching 
sea  of  glory  on  which  his  eyes  rested.  There  was  a 
kindred  splendour  in  the  fashioned  wood  under  his 
arm  that  made  it  luminous  in  the  dark. 

His  joy  suddenly  sobered  him. 

'  I  hope  I  have  left  no  one  unhappy  to-day  by  what 
I  've  done,'  he  spoke  aloud.  And  he  thought  of  the 
sheep,  his  lost  companion.  To-morrow  it  would  be 
killed.  Its  bleat  was  stealing  about  his  heart.  '  My 
God,'  he  said,  raising  his  eyes  again  to  the  shining 
skies,  *  Thou  who  hast  made  the  beautiful  stars  and 
the  creatures  of  the  earth,  judge  me  not  according  as 
I  have  done,  but  according  to  the  desire  that  is  in  my 

B 


IS  BARNACLES 

soul  for  the  loveliness  of  music  which  Thou  also  hast 
created.  Glory  to  Thy  name  for  the  wondrous  things 
which  Thou  hast  made.'  He  wondered,  if  he  should 
pray  for  the  sheep. ,  '  For  the  little  humble  beasts  in 
the  stable  among  which  Jesus  was  born,  O  Lord,  Thy 
protection,'  he  whispered. 

And  the  sheep  and  the  pony,  music  and  himself, 
and  the  big  stars  crossing  the  heavens,  all  mingled 
together  in  one  grand  drift  towards  rest.  Peace 
filled  the  soul  of  Barnacles.  In  the  midst  of  the  road 
he  stopped,  took  the  brown  paper  off  the  fiddle,  and 
began  to  play  softly, 

*  O  gin  I  were  where  Gadie  rins.' 

The  sacrament  of  the  earth's  silence  was  matched 
by  the  grave  stars  in  the  profound  void.  The  night 
mingled  with  the  music  as  with  a  child  it  had  begotten, 
and  the  gaunt  figure  of  the  player  swayed  as  if 
in  the  wind  of  the  melody.  On  and  on  he  played, 
wandering  through  a  dreamland  of  shadows,  phantasy, 
and  such  soft  sounds  as  are  heard  far  off  on  the  beaches 
of  an  unattainable  sea.  Far  from  the  weariness  of  the 
day,  the  heart  of  this  child  of  Nature  was  flitting  on 
wings  across  seas  and  mountains  towards  the  Golden 
Land  that  lies  beyond  all  habitations.  The  music 
died  away  in  the  heavens,  leaving  an  echo  of  invincible 
beauty  and  fragrant  praise  lingering  about  the  player. 
Again  it  sobbed  from  the  strings  upwards,  and  the 
eyes  of  Barnacles  rose  with  it.  What  is  beyond  where 
the  golden  sounds  melt  into  light  ?  Eye  hath  not  seen 
the  exquisite  face  that  is  there  ;  ear  cannot  hear  the 
full  story  of  that  immortal  joy  and  impassioned  yearn- 
ing ;  neither  can  words  utter  what  is  beyond,  where  the 


BARNACLES  19 

song  fades  in  the  deeps  of  the  everlasting  hills — the 
unplumbed  sorrows  and  hopes  in  the  breast  of  man ; 
the  majesty  of  life  ;  the  pathos  of  existence ;  the 
grandeur  of  faith  ;  and  the  excellent  light  which  shines 
as  from  the  face  of  the  Living  God. 

*  Where  Gadie  rins  ;  where  Gadie  rins.'  0  golden 
illusion  ;   O  cry  of  heartbreak,  dripping  tears  ! 

He  ceased  playing  and  shook  all  over.  The  blue 
wide  eyes  stared  along  the  pallid  road  glimmering  away 
in  the  infinity  of  the  night,  as  if  it  too  were  winding  on 
and  ever  to  that  Never-Never-Land. 

Suddenly  a  sheep  began  bleating  across  a  field. 
There  was  a  homeless  sound  in  the  cry.  Barnacles, 
looking  towards  it  with  a  wondering  sadness  in  his 
face,  saw  a  faint  surprising  moon  peering  over  the  top 
of  the  low  hills. 

*  The  night  is  late,  surely,'  he  whispered,  and  stood 
alert  listening  for  the  sheep.  But  the  sheep  cried  no 
more  ;  and  Barnacles'  heart  was  filled  with  joy,  he  did 
not  know  why.  He  put  the  violin  in  his  oxter  and 
began  to  hurry. 

When  he  reached  home  the  farmhouse  was  all  dark. 
A  great  silence  and  a  great  coldness  surrounded  it,  as 
if  some  one  lay  dead  within. 


VI 

Barnacles  had  the  sight  of  only  one  eye.  When  a  boy 
he  had  occasion  to  bore  air-holes  in  a  rabbit-hutch,  and 
watching  for  the  tedious  pocket-knife  to  come  through 
the  wood,  received  unexpectedly  its  point  buried  in  the 
ball  of  bis  left  eye.    The  weal  across  the  eyeball  gave 


20  BARNACLES 

to  his  eye  the  semblance  of  a  horrible  squint.  It  also 
caused  him  to  peer  at  objects  which  he  wished  to 
scrutinise.  Standing  beside  the  grandfather's  clock  at 
the  head  of  the  kitchen  bed,  he  was  peering  now  at  the 
pins  of  the  Irishman's  fiddle,  which  he  was  dismantling 
because  he  had  no  fund  of  sheep,  and  it  concerned  him 
to  be  economical  of  violin  fittings.  He  had  worked 
the  string  out  of  the  last  pin  and  had  thrown  the  hulk 
of  the  violin  on  the  bed,  when  Mr.  Brocklehurst  entered 
the  kitchen  with  alert  step.  He  was  always  an  agile 
man.  He  was  home  first  from  his  wife's  funeral, 
and  when  his  sons  arrived  they  found  him  in  his 
working  clothes,  mending  the  machinery  of  the  big 
churn. 

He  was  angry  to  find  his  son  wasting  time  on  a 
violin  so  early  in  the  morning,  and  snapped,  'Ye'd 
think  there  was  naethin'  to  do  here  but  ca'  a  fiddle 
an'  gang  jauntin'.  Whaur  were  ye  gaUivantin'  a' 
yesterday  ?  ' 

'  I  went  to  Paisley  to  buy  a  violin,  father.' 

*  Did  ye  tak  a'  the  day  to  the  job  ?  ' 

*  Yes,  and  the  night  as  weU,'  said  Barnacles,  winding 
the  violin  string  round  his  fingers  in  a  coil. 

*  Ay,'  sneered  Mr.  Brocklehurst,  '  it 's  unco  like  ye. 
I  wonner  n,oo  how  lang  ye  'd  tak  to  gang  round  the 
warld.' 

'  It  depends,  father,  whether  I  'd  company  on  the 
road.' 

Barnacles  put  the  coil  in  his  top  waistcoat  pocket. 

*  Dod  !  he  'd  company  ;  oot  wi'  the  lasses  whustlin' 
to  the  moon.' 

Barnacles'  face,  framed  in  a  tumult  of  thick  black  hair, 
was  pale  with  the  fatigue  of  yesterday.     It  suddenly 


BARNACLES  21 

flushed  crimson.  '  You  are  wrong  ;  the  company  was 
a  sheep.'     He  kept  his  eyes  downcast. 

*Eh?' 

The  beautiful  blue  eyes  of  the  son  looked  up  smiling. 

'  Yes  ;  blackfaced,  playful,  refractory,  finally  wearied, 
and  inclined  to  lie  on  the  streets  of  Paisley.' 

On  Mr.  Brocklehurst's  face  incredulity  was  struggling 
with  susf^cion. 

*  Whaur  got  ye  the  sheep  ?  '  he  rapped  out. 
Barnacles  pointed  through  the  kitchen  window. 

'  Lifted  it  ?  '  Mr.  Brocklehurst  asked.  He  was 
executing  a  slow  form  of  dance  from  leg  to  leg,  and 
beginnmg  to  chew  his  wiry  grey  moustache. 

Barnacles  cast  a  timid  look  at  him. 

*  No,  father  :  you  refused  me  money  for  my  work  ; 
the  sheep  was  mine.' 

Mr.  Brocklehurst's  face  was  swept  with  flame. 

*  Did  ye  tak  a  sheep  o'  mine  an'  seU  't  for  a  fiddle  ?  ' 
The  blue  eyes  of  Barnacles  became  clouded. 

*  I  had  no  option,'  he  said  in  a  low  voice. 

*  An'  I  'U  hae  nane,  ye  fiddlin'  gowk,  but  to  clap  ye 
in  the  jyle,'  Mr.  Brocklehurst  roared. 

It  was  this  roar  which,  to  the  weak-sighted  Barnacles 
who  could  read  no  other  signs,  betrayed  that  his  father 
was  angiy. 

*  Very  well,  father,  I  am  ready  to  go  to  prison.' 
Mr.  Brocklehurst  was  taken  aback  by  this  submis- 
sion.    It  would  not  restore  the  sheep. 

'  Wha  is  the  resetter  ?  ' 

*  Father,  I  implore  you,  do  not  talk  so  loudly.  It 
will  do  no  good.' 

*  Wha  's  the  resetter  ?  '  said  Mr.  Brocklehurst  with 
an  oath. 


22  BARNACLES 

*  There  is  no  resetter,  because  the  sheep  was  mine.' 
The  tall  thin  figure  with  its  stoop,  and  pale  face,  and 

marks  of  fatigue  about  the  eyes,  seemed  ready  to 
collapse.  Mr.  Brocklehurst  in  a  foam  of  rage  was 
tramping  up  and  down  the  stone  floor.  His  rage  got 
an  instant's  ease  when  his  eye  fell  on  the  violin  on  the 
bed.    He  seized  it. 

'  It  was  yours,  was  it ;  an'  the  lamb  inside  her  as 
weel.' 

'  I  didn't  know  of  that  circumstance,'  said  Barnacles  ; 
and  in  a  tone  of  tenderness  which  drove  his  father  to 
fury,  added,  *  poor  woolly  one,  this  accounts  for  your 
weariness.' 

*  Ye  didna  ken  ;  no,  ye  ken  nowt ;  nowt,  nowt,  ye 
fiddlin'  fule.'  He  swung  the  instrument  aloft  and 
brought  it  down  crashing  on  the  toe  of  his  boot.  The 
neck  and  part  of  the  body  remained  in  his  hand.  These 
he  tossed  on  to  the  fire,  and  kicked  a  splinter  at  his  feet 
across  the  floor. 

Barnacles  watched,  immovable,  in  silence.  He  wiped 
his  spectacles  and  put  them  on. 

*  Ye  '11  fiddle  nae  mair  in  my  hoose ;  there  's  for 
your  fiddle.* 

*  I  'm  sorry,  father,  you  did  that.  It  was  the  fiddle 
I  got  from  Mr.  Docherty,  and  I  was  going  to  give  it 
back  to  him  to-day.' 

*  The  Irish  cobbler  ?  ' 

Mr.  Brocklehurst  turned  his  head  over  his  shoulder 
and  glowered  at  his  son. 

'  Yes  ;  he  's  getting  old  now  and  is  perhaps  cheerless. 
I  'm  sure  he  is  missing  his  fiddle.  It  is  hard  to  be  old 
and  alone  out  of  one's  native  land.' 

Mr.  Brocklehurst  was  not  listening.     He  was  roving 


BARNACLES  28 

round  the  kitchen,  fighting  a  secret  sense  of  shame 
which  came  upon  him  at  the  vindictive  triumph  he  had 
achieved  over  the  tawdry  instrument  of  the  Irishman. 
He  would  have  no  peace  till  he  had  smashed  the  other. 

'  Whaur  is  it  ?  '  he  was  Uke  a  terrier  on  the  scent. 
'  I  '11  mak  short  wark  o't.' 

Barnacles  was  alarmed.  The  blood  rushed  to  his 
face,  and  the  blue  eyes  hardened.  He  would  die  before 
he  would  see  his  violin  ruined.  With  the  instinct  of 
self-preservation  he  darted  to  the  kitchen-poker  and 
picked  it  up.  It  was  a  massive  piece  of  steel,  brightly 
polished.  He  heard  his  father  grunting  and  rummag- 
ing in  the  parlour.  The  noises  in  his  father's  throat 
sickened  him.     He  ran  up  the  narrow  stairs. 

*  Whaur  is  that  fiddle  ?  '  he  heard  his  father  roar. 

*  It  is  here,  in  my  room.' 

Mr.  Brocklehurst  also  ran  up  the  stair. 

His  son  stood  in  the  midst  of  the  bedroom  floor,  the 
violin  in  his  left  hand,  the  poker  in  his  right,  his  face 
ghastly  pale,  his  body,  tense  as  a  bow-string,  leaning 
forward. 

For  a  moment  father  and  son  looked  at  one  another, 
IVIr.  Brocklehurst  with  a  fixity  of  purpose  in  his  gaze 
which  even  Barnacles  did  not  fail  to  see.  The  atmo- 
sphere had  suddenly  become  charged  with  menace  and 
horror.  All  at  once  the  silence  was  broken  by  the 
bleat  of  a  sheep.     Barnacles  drew  in  a  sobbing  breath. 

Mr.  Brocklehurst  without  moving  held  out  his  hand, 
and  showed  his  teeth. 

'  Hand  it  ower.' 

*  Father,  I  warn  you  I  will  defend  my  violin  with  my 
life.' 

'  By  God,  ye  wull.' 


24  BARNACLES 

Again  the  terrible  silence  filled  the  room.  And  once 
more  a  sheep  bleated  without. 

'  0  little  sheep,  be  quiet,  be  quiet !  '  said  Barnacles 
in  a  sob. 

The  sound  of  his  son's  voice  roused  Mr.  Brocklehurst. 
He  seemed  aU  at  once  to  be  set  on  springs.  With 
stealthy  tip-toe  movements  he  began  dodging  round 
his  son.  Barnacles  pivoted  round,  confronting  his 
father  at  every  turn. 

*  Go  away,  go  away,'  he  moaned, '  in  case  I  hurt  you.' 

*  Are  ye  gaun  to  gie  up  the  fiddle  ?  ' 

Mr.  Brocklehurst  was  now  at  the  far  side  of  the  door. 

'  I  could  run  now,'  answered  Barnacles,  '  but  I 
won't,  for  you  would  only  torment  me  in  the  future.' 

Mr.  Brocklehurst  made  a  leap.  Barnacles  jumped 
back  and  jerked  up  the  poker.  It  shook  in  his  quiver- 
ing hand. 

*  No  !  no  !  no  ! '  he  sobbed,  '  don't,  don't ;  I  wiU 
strike  you.' 

Mr.  Brocklehiu-st  eyed  the  steel  shining  in  the  spring 
morning. 

*  Ye  wad  murder  me,'  he  snarled. 

*  It  might  come  to  that.   Go  away !  0  go  away,  quick ! ' 
Mr.  Brocklehurst  was  roused  to  a  sense  of  his  danger 

by  the  changed  face  of  his  son.  Its  paleness  was  wet 
with  a  fine  sweat.  The  eyes  behind  the  spectacles  were 
gleaming.  He  was  crouching  back  hugging  the  violin, 
like  an  animal  defending  its  young. 

*  Ye  're  your  mither's  ain  son,  dour  as  daith,'  he 
snapped,  seeking  to  escape  the  humiliation  of  defeat 
by  traducing  his  dead  wife. 

*  God  bless  my  mother,'  answered  Barnacles  quietly; 
*  I  rejoice  in  your  testimony ' :  he  lowered  the  poker. 


BARNACLES  25 

*  Ye  dae,  dae  ye  ;   weel,  just  bide  her  son.' 

*  I  shall  never  be  worthy  of  her,'  said  Barnacles. 

*  Nae  deot,  nae  doot ;  dae  ye  unnerstaun'  ;  ye  're 
nane  son  o'  mine  ;  I  've  nae  need  o'  ye  here,  ye  sheep- 
lifter.     Be  aff  wi'  ye  before  I  clap  ye  in  jyle.' 

'  I  said  already  that  I  am  willing  to  go  there.' 

Mr.  Brocklehurst  spat  contemptuously. 

'  Ye  're  no'  worth  jyle-room.  Go,'  he  roared ; 
*  tak  the  road.  Dae  ye  hear,  ye  fiddlin'  gowk,  leave 
my  hoose.' 

'  I  will,'  answered  Barnacles,  '  but  not  till  you  leave 
my  room  first,' 

Mr.  Brocklehurst  tasted  the  full  bitterness  of  defeat 
in  these  words.  He  had  expected  the  fiddlin'  gowk 
to  whine  for  mercy.  Instead  he  stepped  aside  and 
made  room  for  his  father  to  pass.  He  passed  trying  to 
stare  down  his  son,  and  from  the  stair-head  cried  : 

'  See  if  your  bonnie  fiddle  will  fill  your  belly  when 
ye  're  hungry.' 

There  was  no  answer.  Barnacles  had  shut  the  door, 
and  was  sobbing  face  downwards  on  the  bed.  One 
arm  was  outstretched,  clutching  the  violin. 

Within  an  hour  he  descended.  In  one  hand  he 
carried  a  violin  case  ;  in  the  other  a  small  black  leather 
bag.  His  father  was  standing  near  the  kitchen  fire, 
looking  sullenly  into  the  coals. 

'  I  've  come  to  say  good-bye,  father.' 

Mr.  Brocklehurst  kept  his  back  to  his  son.  - 

*  Will  you  not  say  good-bye,  father  ? ' 

Mr.  Brocklehurst  slowly  turned  and  gazed  for  a  long 
moment  at  the  haggard  face. 

*  I  hope,'  he  said  surlily,  *  ye  've  lifted  nae  mair  o' 
my  stuff '  ;  he  nodded  grimly  at  the  bag. 


26  BARNACLES 

Barnacles  gazed  at  his  father  sadly. 

*  My  mother's  son  does  not  steal,'  he  said  in  a  low 
trembling  voice. 

Then  Barnacles  left  home  and  again  took  the  road 
to  Paisley. 

VII 

Mr.  Nicol  Gilfillan,  a  Glasgow  banker  resident  in 
Paisley,  was  standing  in  the  Square  of  that  town 
waiting  for  a  tram-car.  He  was  a  tall  man  of  some 
sixty  years  and  of  a  handsome  appearance,  with  cheeks 
the  delicate  tint  of  a  girl's,  a  liquid  brown  eye,  and  a 
broad  white  brow.  He  was  inconspicuously  dressed  in 
grey,  and  though  there  was  a  rawness  in  the  air  wore 
no  overcoat.  Perhaps  it  was  the  simple  sartorial 
appearance  of  this  man,  or  the  air  of  silent  strength 
about  his  head  and  face,  which  inspired  the  confidence 
that  prompted  the  question : 

*  Please,  sir,  do  you  know  where  I  can  find  work  ?  ' 
Mr.  Gilfillan  turned  and  saw  a  tall,  ungainly  young 

man  in  spectacles,  with  a  saUow,  mottled  face  ;  a  violin- 
case  in  one  hand  and  in  the  other  a  black  bag.  He 
liked  the  mild  blue  eye  of  the  youth,  and  a  certain 
boyish  expression  on  the  face  of  one  who  seemed  to  be 
wandered. 

*  May  I  ask  why  you  have  applied  to  me  ?  ' 

*  You  look  like  a  man  who  would  have  a  job.' 
Nicol  Gilfillan  smiled  at  the  naivete.    It  also  touched 

his  heart. 

*  Out  of  a  job,'  he  asked,  not  without  a  humorous 
twinkle. 

*  I  really  never  had  a  job  in  all  my  life.' 


BARNACLES  27 

Mr.  GilfiHan  liked  still  more  this  frank  answer,  and 
said  in  a  jocular  tone  which  brought  them  nearer  to 
each  other  than  when  the  conversation  began : 

*  Where  did  you  grow  up  ?  ' 

*  On  the  Gleniffer  Braes.' 

*  Aren't  you  just  a  little  late — beginning  to  work  ?  ' 

*  I  was  at  the  University.' 

Mr.  Gilfillan,  a  man  by  nature  tender-hearted  and 
sensitive,  suddenly  felt  he  was  acting  like  a  school- 
master or  catechist,  and  that  this  lad  with  blue  eyes, 
perhaps  ready  to  fill,  was  patiently  answering  questions 
with  weariness  in  his  heart  and  soul,  for  he  seemed 
ready  to  drop. 

'  Tell  me  about  yourself  ;  what  can  you  do  ?  have 
you  no  friends  at  the  Glenififer  Braes  ? ' 

'  My  father  is  there.  I  took  one  of  his  sheep  to  buy 
this,'  he  slightly  raised  the  violin-case,  *  and  he  turned 
me  out  of  the  house.' 

*  An  unusual,  but  not  a  very  handsome  testimonial  for 
one  looking  for  a  job,'  Mr.  Gilfillan  said  in  grave  tones. 

Barnacles  blushed. 

'  The  sheep  was  mine  ;  I  worked  for  it.' 

*  Ah  ;  yes,'  answered  Mr.  Gilfillan,  '  that 's  a  sheep 
of  another  colour.'  He  was  genuinely  glad  that  the 
answer  of  this  homeless  lad  bore  the  conviction  of  truth. 

'  Pardon  me  for  asking,  but  is  this  all  you  possess  ?  ' 
'  Yes,'  Barnacles  took  off  his  specs  and  held  them  in 

his  hand,  as  if  to  add  to  the  bulk  of  his  treasure. 
'  Where  are  you  going  to  sleep  to-night  ?  ' 
Barnacles   cast   a   bewildered   look   round   Paisley 

Square. 

*  I  had  not  thought  of  that,'  he  faltered.  *  How 
many  houses  there  are  in  this  town,  and  I  have  nowhere 


28  BARNACLES 

to  go.'  He  turned  his  gaze  from  Paisley  Square  to 
the  sky.  It  was  pure  with  great  spaces  of  blue  and 
fleeces  wandering  in  the  wind.  '  I  'm  afraid  I  'm  a 
wanderer.' 

Mr.  Gilfillan  studied  the  face  puckered  with  childish 
helplessness,  and  put  his  hand  in  his  pocket. 

'  You  will  allow  me  to  help  you,'  he  said.  He  trans- 
ferred his  hand  from  his  trouser  pocket  to  one  inside 
his  jacket,  and  took  out  a  pocket-book  from  which  he 
drew  a  piece  of  cardboard.  This  with  some  silver 
coins  he  handed  to  Barnacles  and  said  :  *  This  is  my 
name  and  address.  I  shall  be  glad  if  you  wiU.  call  on 
me  any  evening  after  seven,  except  Wednesdays.'  Mr. 
Gilfillan  felt  intuitively  that  something  more  than  a 
mere  invitation  for  business  purposes  was  the  due  of 
this  exile.  '  I  wiU  show  you  my  peach-trees  and  vines.' 
His  tone  was  spontaneous  and  warm. 

'  Thank  you,'  said  Barnacles.  '  I  should  like  to  see 
vines  on  an  Italian  hiU-side  in  the  autunm.' 

'  You  would,'  answered  the  banker,  and  pulling  his 
moustache,  mused  upon  Barnacles  for  a  moment.  '  I 
have  a  friend  who  has  been  there  ;  perhaps  she  will  tell 
you  about  it.' 

Barnacles  sighed. 

*  I  envy  her,'  he  said. 

*  You  need  not,'  answered  the  banker  abruptly,  and 
pulled  out  his  watch.  He  saw  the  tram-car  coming. 
*  Good  luck ' ;  he  held  out  his  hand. 

Barnacles  flushed. 

*  WiU  you  mind,  sir,  taking  something  from  me  ?  ' 

*  What  is  it  ?  ' 

Barnacles  put  his  violin-case  on  the  pavement,  opened 
the  black  bag,  rummaged,  took  out  a  book,  and  still 


BARNACLES  29 

r 

stooping  handed  it  to  Mr.  Gilfillan.     He  glanced  at  the 

title.     It  was  called  The  Art  of  Playing  the  Violin. 

'  Is  this  for  me  ?  '  asked  the  banker. 

'  Yes  ;  if  you  will  have  it.' 

The  banker  whistled  a  single  note,  ending  in  a  'whew.' 

'  I  'm  afraid  I  'm  too  stiff  in  the  joints  to  take  to  the 
violin,'  he  laughed. 

Barnacles  rose,  his  face  red  from  bending,  and  put 
out  his  hand  for  the  book.     He  scrutinised  it. 

*  It 's  the  wrong  book,'  he  said,  and  dived  once  more 
into  the  black  bag.  This  time  he  produced  a  thin 
volume  in  yeUow  covers,  which  he  handed  to  the  banker. 
Mr.  Gilfillan  read  the  title.  Apology  of  Socrates. 

'  Thank  you,'  said  Mr.  Gilfillan  heartily,  and  slipped 
the  book  into  his  jacket  pocket. 

The  car  had  stopped  a  little  from  them,  and  as  the 
banker  held  out  his  hand.  Barnacles,  a  little  tremulous 
of  voice,  said,  '  Is  the  lady  who  has  been  to  Italy  in 
great  sorrow  ? '  For  a  fraction  of  a  moment  Mr. 
GilfiUan  hesitated  ;  and  then  felt  sudden  shame  at 
suspecting  the  sincerity  of  the  question. 

'  Not  now,'  he  answered.     '  Good-bye.' 

Mr.  GUfillan  was  standing  on  the  footboard  :  a  beU 
on  the  car  rang. 

'  By  the  way,'  he  cried,  '  what  is  your  name  ?  ' 

'  Barnacles,'  the  car  was  moving  ...  *  no,  I  mean 
Benjamin  Brocklehurst.' 

But  it  was  only  '  Barnacles  '  which  the  banker  had 
heard.  .  .  .  '  I  met  one  of  God's  own  innocents  this 
afternoon,'  he  told  his  wife  when  he  reached  home ; 
'  his  name  is  Barnacles,  and  he  's  coming  here  for  a  job.' 

He  told  of  the  encounter.  When  he  had  finished 
he  pondered,  looking  in  at  the  fire. 


80  BARNACLES 

*  Strange,'  he  said  in  measured  tones,  *  he  seemed  to 
divine  that  Martha  had  been  in  trouble.' 

'  You  must  have  said  something  to  him,  Nicol.' 
Mr.  Gilfillan  reflected. 

*  No  ;  except  that  she  had  been  in  Italy.* 

*  It  is  queer,'  said  his  wife. 

After  a  prolonged  silence  she  added, '  What  on  earth 
made  you  talk  about  Martha  to  a  stranger  ?  ' 
The  banker  still  pondered. 

*  Blest  if  I  know  ;  it 's  the  way  he  had  of  talking. 
Oh  !  by  the  way  he  gave  me  a  book.  Here  it  is.' 
Mr.  GilfiUan  put  his  hand  in  his  pocket  and  gave 
The  Apology  of  Socrates  to  his  wife. 

She  read  the  title. 

'  I  will  give  it  to  Martha,'  she  said. 

*  All  right,'  answered  the  banker,  '  but  I  'm  going  to 
read  it  on  Sunday.' 


vin 

Barnacles,  brought  to  realise  his  homelessness  by  a 
question  of  Mr.  GilfiUan's,  looked  round  the  Square. 

*  I  wonder  what  I  am  to  do  now,'  he  said  aloud. 

There  was  nothing  in  his  pocket  save  four  violin 
strings  carefully  coiled  and  a  violin  bridge.  He  was 
about  to  scratch  his  head  with  his  spectacles — a 
common  habit — ^when  he  discovered  money  in  his 
hand.     Also  a  piece  of  cardboard,  on  which  he  read  : 

NICOL  GILFILLAN, 
Babshaw, 

Castlehead, 
Paislby. 


BARNACLES  81 

As  he  read  he  was  aware  of  a  shadow  falling  upon 
him.  He  looked  up,  and  his  heart  thumped  on  his  ribs 
as  he  saw  the  policeman  of  yesterday,  standing  solidly 
before  him. 

'  Sold  the  sheep,  young  fella  ? ' 

*  It  is  disposed  of,'  answered  Barnacles  in  a  fluster. 
The  policeman  scrutinised  the  luggage  lying  at  odds 

on  the  pavement.  The  black  bag  was  open.  The 
policeman  pointed. 

'  Do  they  belong  to  you  ?  ' 

Barnacles  pocketed  what  he  had  in  his  hand,  and 
picked  up  the  violin-case.  He  was  at  a  loss  to  explain 
his  scattered  possessions,  and  jerked  out,  '  I  got  this  in 
exchange  for  the  sheep.' 

The  policeman  replied  in  mild  irony,  *  This  is  not  a 
bedroom,'  and  pointed  again  to  the  open  black  bag. 
Barnacles  closed  it  and  picked  it  up. 

*  Do  you  know,'  he  asked  mildly,  '  where  I  will  get 
work  ?  ' 

'  Are  you  on  the  hoof  ?  ' 

*  I  beg  your  pardon.' 

'  Down  on  your  luck  ;  out  o'  a  job.' 

'  That  is  my  predicament.' 

The  policeman  ran  his  eye  over  Barnacles. 

*  Can  you  write  an'  read  an'  figger  ?  ' 
'  A  Httle.' 

'  Try  the  force ;  you  've  got  the  height ;  have  you 
any  influence  ?  ' 

'  None  in  the  world.' 

'  Oh  !  well ;  you  're  no  use  without  it  nowadays. 
If  you  're  a  good  hand  wi'  the  pen  you  may  have  a 
chance.' 

The  policeman  nodded,  not  imkindly,  and  moved  o£f. 


82  BARNACLES 

Barnacles  walked  aimlessly  in  the  opposite  direction. 
After  he  had  been  walking  some  time  he  stopped  in 
the  middle  of  a  street  and  said  to  himself : 

'  Dear  me  !   I  am  following  the  sheep.' 

He  walked  on  to  the  stable  of  yester-evening.  It 
was  closed  blankly  in  his  face  and  was  silent  within. 
He  put  his  available  eye  to  one  of  three  keyholes  in  a 
scarred  door  and  peered.     He  could  see  nothing. 

'  I  'm  afraid  the  sheep  is  dead,'  he  said  to  the  door, 
and  walked  sadly  out  of  the  yard. 

This  street  was  fertile  in  certain  industries.  Over  a 
close-mouth  beside  Barnacles  was  a  sign — 

RAG,  WASTE,  AND  METAL  MERCHANT 
JOBBING    SMITH. 

The  close  itself  was  scarcely  broader  than  a  stout 
woman.  The  front  of  the  houses  was  fuU  of  little 
windows, — each  window  about  a  yard  apart.  To  the 
weak-sighted  Barnacles  the  low  tenements  looked  like 
a  dove-cot.  He  moved  up  the  street  past  another 
close-mouth  adorned  with  two  Corinthian  pillars, 
relics  of  an  ancient  grandeur  when  men  of  substance 
lived  in  the  environment  of  the  abbey.  Beyond  this 
there  was  another  sign — 

RAGS   AND   METAL   BOUGHT 
BEST   PARAEPIN   OIL 

beneath  which  the  window,  which  contained  a  pair  of 
skates,  a  broken  clock,  brass  candlesticks,  and  pewter 
teapots,  struggled  to  keep  the  air  of  a  shop  divorced 
from  a  dwelling.  At  its  door  stood  a  red-faced  woman 
in  a  tartan  shawl. 

'  Can  you  please  tell  me,'  asked  Barnacles,  *  where  a 
man  who  sells  fish  lives  hereabouts  ? ' 


BARNACLES  88 

The  woman  took  her  fingers  out  of  her  hair. 
'  Are  ye  a  freend  ?  '  she  asked. 

*  No,  not  exactly.' 

'  An'  whaur  are  ye  frae.  if  I  'm  no'  too  bold  ?  * 

*  From  Battlemains  on  the  Gleniffer  Braes,' 

*  I  didna  ken  Skeily  was  acquent  there.  It  '11  be 
him  ye  're  aifter.' 

'  I  don't  know  his  name.     He  has  a  pony.' 

*  Ay !  that 's  him  ;  a  wee  blin'  grey  powny.'  She 
folded  her  arms  beneath  pendulous  breasts.  '  Ye  'U  be 
related  to  his  wife  that 's  deid  an'  gone  ? ' 

'  No,'  answered  Barnacles ;  '  wiU  you  please  teU  me 
where  he  lives  ? ' 

'  No.  21 ;  through  the  close ;  up  the  stair ;  him  an'  blin' 
Ned  bide  on  the  ae  stair-heid ;  is 't  ludgins  ye  're  aifter  ? ' 

'  I  am  at  present  a  wanderer,'  answered  Barnacles, 
and  continued  his  search  for  a  roof. 

He  entered  close  No.  21.  Here  the  street  looked 
better,  like  a  pair  of  boots  half -soled.  The  little  shops 
were  not  dweUing-houses  with  a  sign  over  the  door 
or  the  window.  On  the  left-hand  side  of  close  No.  21 
was  a  wooden  door  with  a  big  brass  plate  on  which  was 
engraved  the  words 

FUNERAL  UNDERTAKER. 

The  close  opened  unexpectedly  into  a  courtyard  on 
which  the  windows  at  the  back  of  the  house  looked 
down.     On  one  of  these  windows  was  printed — 

LOAN   OFFICE.      LIBERAL   ADVANCES   MADE    ON 
WRINGING  AND    SEWING   MACHINES. 

On  another — 

SLATER  AND    SWEEP. 

Three  spiral  stairs  led  up  to  three  separate  doors. 

c 


84  BARNACLES 

Some  children  were  seated  on  the  ground  beside  three 
young  men.  The  men  had  been  playing  cards,  and 
each  child  had  taken  turn  to  watch  for  the  police. 
Barnacles,  puzzled  by  the  stairs,  asked  for  Mr.  SkeUy's 
house.  He  was  directed  to  the  middle  stair.  At  the 
top  of  it  there  was  a  sink  smeUing  badly,  and  a  passage 
floored  with  wood.  This  floor  had  many  holes,  in  one 
of  which  Barnacles  tripped.  He  brought  himself  up 
betwixt  two  doors  near  the  end  of  the  passage.  He 
knocked  on  the  one  on  the  right.  It  was  opened  by  a 
little  stunted  boy  of  some  seven  or  perhaps  nine  years, 
it  was  difficult  to  tell,  so  pitiably  thin  he  was,  with  a 
white  face  and  big  eyes.     There  were  sores  on  his  face. 

Barnacles  smiled  sweetly  on  the  boy  and  said : 
'  May  I  come  in  ?  ' 

A  voice  which  he  recognised  shouted,  '  Ay !  if  ye  're 
no'  the  factor.' 

Barnacles  stooping  entered. 

The  fish-hawker  was  seated  on  a  stool  at  the  window 
mending  a  little  pair  of  boots.  An  old  man  with  a 
long  white  beard  and  side  whiskers  and  snow-white  hair 
sat  over  the  embers  of  a  fire.  He  gazed  at  Barnacles 
for  a  moment,  then  turned  and  spread  his  blue-veined 
hands  over  the  fire. 

Barnacles  put  down  his  baggage  on  the  floor  and 
said :  *  It 's  a  strange  town  this,  Mr.  SkeUy.  You  leave 
the  High  Street  and  the  Square  and  in  a  few  minutes 
you  are  among  the  little  shops  of  the  rag  stores.' 

*  Ay,'  answered  Skelly,  laying  down  the  boot, '  we  're 
the  scavengers  o'  Paisley  here ;  us  an'  the  Cart ;  we 
gether  in  the  cast-offs  o'  Castleheid.' 

*  Castlehead,'  mused  Barnacles,  *  I  seem  to  remember 
that  name.' 


BARNACLES  85 

*  It 's  whaur  the  swells  bide,'  said  Skelly. 
Barnacles,  vainly  searching  in  his  memory  for  the 

springs  of  Castlehead,  noticed  the  little  boy  crouched 
between  his  father's  legs,  his  big  dumb  eyes  staring  out 
of  his  white  face  like  dark  stars  glowing  in  a  sky  of 
alabaster. 

The  puzzled  look  on  Barnacles'  face  gave  way  to  a 
smile. 

*  Is  your  toothache  better,  my  wee  man  ?  ' 

The  boy  drew  farther  into  the  shelter  of  his  father. 

*  Speak  to  the  gentleman,'  said  the  fish-hawker ;  '  this 
is  the  man  that  gied  ye  the  pennies.' 

The  boy  turned  and  hid  his  face  against  his  father's 
shoulder. 

'He  hasna  stopped  speakin'  aboot  ye  since  he 
waukened  '  ;  the  boy  began  plucking  at  his  father's 
coat,  earnestly  beseeching  him  by  signs  not  to  betray 
anything  further. 

'  I  'm  glad  if  I  made  him  happy,'  said  Barnacles,  and 
his  face  became  radiant. 

'  Ye  did  that ;  ye  're  the  first  that  ever  gied  him 
ony  thing.' 

Barnacles  was  amazed.  He  would  have  been  more 
astonished  still  had  he  known  that  his  simple  act  of 
kindness  had  made  of  the  fish-hawker  a  steadfast  friend. 
Those  who  live  in  the  midst  of  constant  vicissitude  and 
struggle  put  heaven's  value  on  a  kind  deed. 

The  fish-hawker  picked  up  the  little  boot  again  and 
was  examining  it  in  the  light  of  the  window  over  the 
boy's  head, 

'  Can  you  mend  shoes  ?  '   asked  Barnacles. 

*  Hae  to  do  it.' 

*  Strange,'    said   Barnacles,    '  it   was   a   shoemaker 


86  BARNACLES 

taught  me  to  play  the  violin,  and  through  a  violin  I 
came  to  meet  you.' 

Before  the  fish-hawker  was  able  to  reply,  the  old 
man  turned  and  looked  at  Barnacles. 

'  Are  ye  a  scholar  ? '  he  quavered. 

*  I  have  been  at  the  University.' 

*  Hae  ye  sae,'  asked  the  fish-hawker,  a  smile  quicken- 
ing his  face. 

Barnacles  liked  the  smile.  This  poor  man  was 
rejoicing  in  the  good  fortune  which  he  had  enjoyed  in 
studying  at  the  University.  Barnacles  had  a  sense 
of  shame  that  he  was  incapable  of  such  unselfishness, 
and  felt  there  was  something  big  and  protecting  in  the 
fish-hawker. 

The  old  man  arose,  his  body  trembling  with  both 
age  and  excitement. 

'  May  be,'  he  quavered,  *  ye  could  win  for  me  my 
auld-age  pension.' 

*  Are  you  the  age  ;  I  will  help  you  all  I  can.* 

*  I  'm  ower  seveenty,'  he  sighed  deeply ;  *  the  log's 
runnin'  oot  fast ;  ninety  degrees  West  is  the  Port ;  let 
go  the  anchor,  Mr.  Mate  ;  ninety  West  an'  the  sun 
goes  doon ' 

*  Noo,  noo,  faither,  nane  o'  that  argle-bargle.' 

The  old  man  put  on  an  apologetic  face,  and  crouched 
back  like  a  wounded  bird  which  tries  to  conceal  itself. 
Casting  a  sidelong  glance  of  both  timidity  and  spying 
at  his  son,  he  hu'pled  to  a  large  black  trunk,  whose  lid 
was  studded  with  iron-heads,  which  stood  against  the 
wall  between  the  foot  of  the  set-in-bed  and  the  door. 
When  he  lifted  up  the  lid.  Barnacles  saw  the  name 
Hector  Cochran  ornately  carved  with  foreign  devices 
inside  the  lid.     The  letters  A.B.  had  been  scratched  in 


BARNACLES  87 

after  the  word  Cochran.  There  was  also  a  crude  paint- 
ing of  a  full-rigged  ship. 

'  Have  you  been  a  seaman  ?  '  asked  Barnacles. 

*  Ay,'  a  light  flashed  across  the  faded  face,  '  round 
the  Horn.'  He  sidled  up  to  Barnacles,  and  in  a  trem- 
bling voice  whispered,  '  Nae  rent  to  pay  in  the  fo'c'sle- 
heid.'  He  looked  over  his  shoulder  with  the  air  of  a 
hunted  animal.  '  I  'm  no'  wastin'  the  fire  when  I  'm 
sittin'  at  it ;  it  wad  be  burnin'  onywy.'  •  He  whispered 
these  words  to  Barnacles  as  if  to  a  fellow-conspirator, 
then  dived  down  and  with  an  air  of  great  busyness 
took  from  a  drawer  in  the  trunk  a  little  parcel  in  tissue 
paper  bound  about  with  a  faded  pink  ribbon. 

The  atmosphere,  which  had  been  gloomy,  had  now 
become  dark,  and  thunder  sounded  in  the  distance  like 
a  great  wind.  The  old  seaman,  who  was  undoing  the 
tissue  paper  with  palsied  hand,  raised  his  head. 

'  It 's  goin'  to  blow,  Mr.  Mate,'  he  cried  in  a  sharp 
tone,  '  look  away  to  leeward  .  .  .' 

He  was  interrupted  by  Skelly  laughing  and  saying  : 
*  Dinna  heed  him.  Whiles  he  thinks  he  's  a  captain 
at  sea.  You  never  heard  such  a  clash  o'  nonsense  as  he 
tallis.' 

The  rain  broke  on  the  street  and  crashed  on  the 
window.  The  old  man,  almost  doubled,  made  a  little 
dart  towards  his  son. 

'  It 's  a  wild  day,  Skelly  ;  I  don't  think  I  '11  bide  at 
the  close-mooth  the  nicht.' 

'  If  ye  daur,'  answered  SkeUy,  shaking  a  hammer  at 
him,  '  I  'U  put  the  hems  on  ye.' 

The  old  man  trotted  back  to  Barnacles,  and  began 
fumbling  with  the  tissue  paper. 

'  Did  ye  hear  thon  ? '  he  whispered ;  '  I  'U  no  bide  at 


88  BARNACLES 

the  close  the  nicht ;    he  '11  put  the  hems  on  me  if  I 
dae  ;  is  he  no'  the  guid  son  ?  ' 

Barnacles  was  astonished  no  less  at  the  glad  light  on 
the  old  man's  face  than  at  his  words.  He  appeared  to 
be  released  from  the  '  close-mouth  '  as  from  a  dire  vigil. 

*  What  is  it  you  do  at  the  close-mouth  ? '  asked 
Barnacles. 

With  an  intensity  of  passion  surprising  for  his  years, 
he  whispered,  *  I  hate  it !  man,  I  hate  it !  is  he  no'  the 
guid  son  ?  I  '11  just  sit  doon  at  the  fire-en'.  The  coal 
wad  be  burnin'  onywy.' 

He  had  taken  out  a  yellow  tattered  document  from 
the  folds  of  the  tissue  paper. 

'  If  I  win  my  auld-age  pension,'  he  whispered,  at  the 
same  time  casting  his  half  sly,  half  timid  glance  at 
Skelly, '  I  'U  be  independent.  I  can  bide  at  the  fire-en', 
can  I  no' ;  man,  I  hate  the  close.' 

He  had  opened  up  the  document.  It  was  pieced 
together  with  stamp  paper,  which  cracked  under  the 
tremulous  fingers.  As  Barnacles  looked,  a  clear  drop 
fell  upon  a  woman's  name  written  on  the  paper — Mary 
Rutherford. 

The  old  man  gazed  upon  it  a  moment,  and  wiped  the 
tear  away. 

*  It 's  my  mairraige-lines,'  he  said. 

His  eyes  shone  with  hope  as  he  handed  the  docu- 
ment to  Barnacles. 

'  I  'U  maybe  hae  some  trouble,'  he  quavered.  *  I  've 
some  o'  my  discharges  here.' 

'  Never  mind  these,'  said  Barnacles.  *  I  think  you 
can  make  your  mind  easy.' 

His  dream  about  to  be  realised,  shook  the  old  man 
with  excitement.     '  My  mairraige-lines  ;   they  '11  show 


BARNACLES  39 

I  'm  a  respectable  man  and  was  mairrit  on  a  dacent 
wumman.  We  had  a  hoose  o'  oor  ain.  I  wasna  aye 
beholden  for  a  comer  at  the  fire  ;  but  I  'U  be  mde- 
pendent  noo.  Mary  'ill  stand  by  me.'  All  this  he 
kept  whispering  in  a  low  broken  voice.  He  shot  a 
glance  at  his  son,  who  was  paring  a  leather-sole  with 
his  knife  and  cried  out  loudly,  '  It 's  clearin'  away 
again,  Mr.  Mate  ;  hold  her  to  the  s'uthard  ;  pass  the 
word  to  the  helmsman,'  and  he  continued  to  babble 
strange  names  of  far  lands,  dead  captains  and  lost 
ships,  till  it  seemed  to  Barnacles  that  the  factory 
chimneys  of  Paisley,  which  rose  against  the  grey  sky, 
were  the  masts  of  ships,  and  the  rigging  was  humming 
in  the  wind  of  the  back-court,  and  the  earnestness  of  a 
gale  was  driving  salt  water  in  sprays  upon  the  window. 

'  Is  he  no'  the  blether  ?  '  said  SkeUy,  laughing  again. 

'  I  like  when  he  laughs,'  whispered  the  old  man  to 
Barnacles,  '  I  like  to  hear  SkeUy  laughin'.' 

The  light  of  unwearied  paternal  affection  shone 
upon  his  face.  As  Barnacles  looked  at  him  so  illumined 
with  affection,  he  felt  a  lump  rising  in  his  throat.  He 
was  unable  properly  to  control  his  voice. 

*  If  you — wiU — give  me — this  paper,'  the  rest  of  the 
words  came  away  with  a  rush,  '  I  wiU  find  the  official 
who  looks  after  these  things.' 

The  old  man  brushed  back  his  thin  white  hair. 

*  It  was  God  sent  you  here,'  he  said. 

*  I  think  it  was,'  answered  Barnacles  after  a  moment's 
reflection  on  the  manner  in  which  his  footsteps  had  been 
guided  by  a  sheep.  .  .  . 

When  Barnacles  reached  the  courtyard  he  remem- 
bered that  he  had  not  told  these  good  people  why  he 
had  visited  them.     He  went  back. 


40  BARNACLES 

*  My  friend,'  he  said  to  Skelly,  *  I  forgot  to  tell  you 
that  I  came  here  because  I  have  no  money  and  am 
looking  for  work.' 

The  fish-hawker  was  not  unacquaint  with  men  in  such 
a  case.     He  reflected  a  moment. 

'  I  sold  the  sheep  for  twenty-seeven  an'  six.  I  '11 
gie  ye  the  seeven  an'  six.' 

*  No,  no,'  said  Barnacles  in  a  distressed  voice,  *  I 
will  not  take  the  money.  I  hope  to  get  a  job  as 
policeman  ;  it 's  what  to  do  till  then  ;  I  'm  a  stranger 
in  Paisley.' 

'  Stay  here  an'  welcome.' 

The  old  man  made  a  little  run  towards  Barnacles. 

'  Did  ye  hear  that  ?  is  he  no'  the  guid  son  ?  ye  '11  no' 
waste  the  fire  by  sittin'  at  the  fiire-en','  he  whispered 
in  a  tremulously  eager  voice,  '  it  wad  be  burnin'  ony- 
wy.     That 's  what  I  aye  think.' 

'  Thank  you  very  much,'  answered  Barnacles,  *  it 's  a 
great  relief.' 

*  You  're  welcome,'  laughed  Skelly ;  and  in  a  bantering 
tone,  *  It 's  a  kittly  sort  o'  job,  a  bobby's  ;  geyan  lang 
oors ;  staunin'  hauf  the  day  daein'  naethin'  but 
gantin'  intae  your  haun  ;  it 's  cruel  work  for  ony  man. 
They  're  no'  hained  I  can  tell  ye  ;  Sunday  as  weel. 
They  canna  dae  withoot  bobbies  in  Scotland  even  when 
the  kirk-bells  are  ringin'.' 

*  It  is  remarkable,'  answered  Barnacles,  '  in  the 
twentieth  century.' 

*  Me  an'  you  'ill  be  snog  an'  cosy  at  the  fire-en',' 
whispered  the  old  seaman  as  Barnacles  turned  to  go 
the  second  time.  As  he  was  on  the  stair-head  he 
heard  the  old  man's  voice  raised  : 

*  All  snug  aloft,  Mr.  Mate,  out  reefs.  Do  you  remember 


BARNACLES  41 

the  Evandene,  from  Sydney  ?  bad  winter  weather  off 
the  Spanish  coast ;  not  a  glimpse  of  the  land  ;  boring 
through  it ;  sails  blew  out,  adrift ;  flooded  deck  .  .  .* 
and  SkeUy's  voice,  '  Never  mind  the  Evandene,  faither  ; 
put  on  the  kettle  for  the  gentleman's  tea.' 

When  Barnacles  reached  the  street  the  rain  had 
ceased  but  was  dripping  from  the  eaves.  He  lifted  a 
smiling  face  to  the  clearing  heavens. 

He  was  thinking  of  the  tenderness  and  devotion 
which  had  wrapped  the  faded  marriage -lines  in  tissue 
paper,  and  of  the  faith  which  the  aged  seaman  had 
in  his  dead  wife. 

IX 

This  old  man  had  lived  with  his  son  from  the  time 
that  Skelly  went  to  the  Boer  War  in  the  Scots  Fusiliers, 
and  from  which  he  returned  with  a  weal  on  his  face, 
a  bullet  wound  in  the  leg,  and  high  commendation  for 
his  skill  and  heroism  in  serving  a  maxim. 

On  his  return  he  found  that  his  wife  was  dead  and 
that  he  had  a  son.  His  father,  mindful  of  Skelly  in  the 
midst  of  the  battles,  had  caUed  the  child  Kitchener 
Cochran,  and  shrinking,  as  if  he  were  about  to  be 
beaten,  apologised  for  giving  the  boy  this  warrior-name. 

He  was  always  in  a  state  of  shrinking  timidity,  this 
little  old  hunched-up  man  whom  no  one  took  any 
notice  of  as  he  crept  about  Paisley  from  Cotton  Street 
to  the  Coffin  End,  in  jerks  and  starts  as  if  the  shadow 
of  a  foe  were  constantly  upon  him.  He  was  friendless 
save  for  a  blind  man  who  lived  on  the  same  stair-head. 
This  blind  man  tried  to  support  his  mother  by  adding 
to  the  earnings  of  his  brother,  who  tended  the  furnaces 


42  BARNACLES 

of  a  small  moulding  shop.  The  blind  brother,  with  a  tin 
placard  suspended  from  his  neck  on  which  was  printed 

KIND  FEIENDS 
BLIND  FROM  BIRTH 

sought  for  alms  chiefly  on  the  bridges  of  the  town,  where 
he  stood  aU  day  like  a  monument  under  the  inclemency 
of  the  skies. 

Hector  the  seaman  and  his  blind  companion  met  in 
the  evenings  at  the  close-mouth,  and  the  mariner 
recounted  to  the  other  wanderer  old  adventures  on  the 
deep,  taking  him  from  hot  harbour  to  frozen  port 
around  the  seaboard  of  the  world.  The  blind  man  then 
told  of  that  other  dark  ocean  where  he  lived,  and  of 
how  the  ship  of  his  soul  adventured  with  frigate  daring 
along  the  shores  of  humanity,  from  which  he  heard 
wafted  out  to  him  on  his  dark  sea  laughter  like  a  calm, 
sobbing  as  rain,  and  the  storms  of  rage  and  anger. 

'  I  wish  I  could  see,  Hector,  I  wish  I  could  see,'  he 
would  say  when  the  faded  mariner  enchanted  him 
with  strange  things  concerning  the  high  places  of  the 
earth. 

*  Never  mind,  Ned,  never  mind ;  if  ye  'd  your  sight 
an'  were  a  sailor  ye  micht  hae  been  drooned.  Mony 
a  mate  I  had  that  never  came  back.  Better  to  be 
blin'  in  Paisla'  than  lyin'  oot  yonder  on  wild  nichts  at 
the  bottom  o'  the  gales.' 

'  I  winna  heed,'  answered  Ned,  '  if  only  I  saw. 
What 's  a  crood  o'  folk  like  walkin'  in  the  High  Street  ?  * 

*  Like  a  wheen  peacocks  an'  jeckdaws,  the  ane  tryin' 
to  be  bigger  than  the  tither.  They  haena  the  fear  o' 
God  in  them,'  the  old  mariner  would  answer  tartly. 

Commonly,  however,  he  was  alone,  even  in  the  house 
into  which  he  would  come  as  if  he  were  a  stranger ;  and 


BARNACLES  43 

only  after  he  had  been  there  a  very  long  time  did  a 
certain  wary  look  leave  his  face.  At  first  he  would  sit 
down  as  if  ready  to  bolt,  and  eye  SkeUy  apprehensively, 
as  if  asking  his  permission  to  stay.  By  stealth  he  would 
remove  his  seaman's  cap,  nursing  it  in  his  hands  till 
he  managed  with  noiseless  movement  to  throw  it  on 
the  bed  or  beneath  a  chair.  This  afforded  him  great 
relief.  He  felt  he  was  more  of  an  inmate  when  rid  of 
the  cap,  and  the  smile  of  senile  obsequiousness  would 
fade  off  his  face.  If  by  chance  Skelly  spoke  to  him  his 
face  would  light  up  with  joy,  his  hands  would  begin 
to  tremble,  and  he  would  pour  forth  a  torrent  of  in- 
coherent phrases  about  the  sea,  mingled  with  the  high 
names  of  big  ships.  This  demeanour  had  grown  from 
the  days  when  he  realised  that  he  was  a  dependent. 
His  pride  had  broken  as  his  body  grew  enfeebled. 
Only  on  one  day  of  the  week  was  he  bold,  for  on 
Saturday  he  earned  a  little  money  by  washing  tumblers 
and  carrying  loaded  trays  in  a  large  public-house. 

Sometimes  if  Skelly  was  busy  or  preoccupied,  the  old 
man  would  quietly  leave  the  room,  trying  to  suppress 
his  sighs,  and  after  wandering  in  the  streets  tiU  he  was 
fatigued,  would  stand  in  the  close-mouth  wearily 
watching  the  passers-by.  About  ten  o'clock  he  would 
be  shivering  with  the  cold,  and  would  cast  long  glances 
up  the  close,  muttering,  *  I  wadna  be  wastin'  the  fire  if  I 
was  sittin'  at  it ;  it  wad  be  there  onywy.'  He  trembled 
when  he  heard  a  footstep  on  the  pavement,  for  the 
question  was  always  the  same, '  Not  home  yet,  Hector,' 
or  '  It 's  a  caul'  nicht  to  be  oot ' ;  and  he  would  pipe 
up  as  cheerily  as  he  could,  *  I  'm  just  new  oot,'  or  '  I 
like  a  bit  dander  afore  I  go  to  bed.'  Quite  often  Skelly 
would  come  in  search  of  him. 


44  BARNACLES 

*  What  in  a'  the  warld  are  ye  dom',  faither  ?  Dae  ye 
no'  ken  it 's  aifter  ten  ?  ' 

'  Aifter  ten  ;  shairely  no  ;  oa'  the  watch,'  and  like 
a  child  running  at  the  summons  of  the  school-beU,  he 
would  shuffle  up  the  close  crying,  '  I  'd  scarcely  time 
to  tak  a  breath  o'  fresh  air,  Skelly.' 

'  Hach,'  answers  Skelly,  going  on  in  front,  *  you  an' 
your  fresh  air  ;   I  think  ye  're  leevin'  on  't.' 

*  Weel !   weel !   the  mom's  nicht  I  '11  bide  in.' 

But  when  to-morrow  night  came  he  felt  as  much  as 
ever  an  intruder.  Perhaps  SkeUy  would  happen  to 
catch  him  going  out. 

*  Whaur  noo,  faither  ;   whaur  awa  noo  ?  ' 

With  a  humble  smUe  the  old  man  would  hesitate  in 
the  midst  of  the  floor  and  slip  ofif  his  cap. 

*  I  'U  maybe  bide  in  the  nicht,'  and  in  a  louder  voice 
brimming  with  glee :  '  Ready,  Mr.  Mate,  with  the 
anchor  :   let  go.' 

*  Ye  'd  be  as  weel,  faither ;  I  canna  onnerstaun  whit 
ye  dae  doon  at  the  close.' 

*  Ay  !  ay  !  ye  're  richt,  Skelly ;  it 's  only  a  lee  shore 
on  a  wet  nicht,  the  close-mooth.' 

Already  he  would  be  unlacing  his  boots,  and  a  bird 
of  joy  would  be  singing  in  his  breast. 

He  was  inordinately  fond  of  SkeUy,  and  went  out 
nearly  every  day  searching  the  streets  and  listening  for 
the  beU  with  which  Skelly  summoned  his  customers. 
He  would  peer  round  corners  before  trusting  his  person 
in  the  open  lest  he  come  on  his  son  unawares.  When 
he  caught  sight  of  the  grey  pony  he  would  watch  afar 
off,  dodging  in  and  out  of  closes,  and  all  the  time  follow- 
ing SkeUy's  trafficking  with  anxious  intent.  Once 
as  he  stood  in  a  short  street  blinking  round  the  corner, 


BARNACLES  45 

Skelly  came  round  the  comer  at  the  other  end,  and 
before  the  old  man  was  aware  the  bell  rang  at  his  neck. 
He  turned  with  a  scared  face,  and  his  confusion  was  so 
great  that  he  became  dumb. 

'  What  are  ye  doin'  here,  faither  ?  ' 

He  grew  more  and  more  confused.  He  tried  to  say 
he  was  just  out  for  a  bit  dander,  but  the  words  would 
not  come. 

'  Hach,'  said  Skelly, '  you  're  shiverin'  wi'  caul' ;  gae 
awa  hame.' 

After  he  had  hobbled  along  for  a  dozen  yards  he 
turned  back  and  burst  out : 

*  Skelly,  I  was  lookin'  for  a  shop  that  sells  peeries  for 
wee  Kitchener.' 

'  Hach !  never  heed  peeries.'  Skelly  wrapped  a 
whiting  and  two  haddock  in  a  sheet  of  newspaper, 
*  Tak  hame  thae  fush  an'  hae  them  ready  for  the  tea.' 

For  a  week  after  this  he  was  scared  of  spying,  and 
sat  like  a  stone  in  one  of  the  seats  in  Dunn  Square, 
wondering  all  the  time  where  SkeUy  would  be  now,  and 
if  the  sales  were  good.  He  always  shivered  when  he 
saw  his  son  ring  the  bell  and  no  one  came  to  the  cart. 
In  a  little  while  perhaps  there  would  be  one,  two,  three, 
a  crowd  of  women  round  the  cart.  How  the  old  man's 
eyes  would  light  up  !  He  would  rub  his  hands  and 
hop  from  foot  to  foot,  thinking  all  the  time, '  SkeUy  will 
be  pleased.'  He  wanted  to  cry  to  every  woman  in  the 
street  to  go  to  the  cart  and  buy  fish.  When  he  attended 
from  afar  on  one  of  SkeUy's  good  days,  he  would  walk 
home  as  dignified  as  an  admiral,  smoothing  down  his 
clothes,  and  with  a  tremendous  smile  of  satisfaction, 
whispering  to  himself,  '  Skelly  will  be  pleased  ;  SkeUy 
is  the  boy.'     He  was  a  broken  old  man  no  longer  then, 


46  BARNACLES 

but  cheerily  spoke  to  every  one  he  met,  even  to  the 
red-haired  undertaker  in  the  close,  whom  he  disliked, 
using  the  grandest  sea-terms  and  smQing  from  face 
to  face.  He  made  a  point  of  '  bidin'  at  hame  '  that 
evening. 

*  Trade  good  the  day,  Skelly  ? '  he  would  venture. 

*  Tip-top,  faither.' 

*  Ay  !  ay  !  caught  the  Trades,'  he  would  chirp  quite 
boldly. 

'  I  caught  the  trade  onywy,'  and  the  joy  in  the  old 
man's  heart  could  not  be  hidden  on  his  face  as  he  heard 
his  son  laugh.  '  I  like  to  hear  Skelly  laughin'  better 
nor  onything  in  the  world,'  he  would  whisper  to  himself. 

On  such  a  night  he  would  become  quite  daring,  and 
never  dream  of  creeping  out  of  doors.  He  would  even 
pick  up  a  boot  and  a  last,  and  cackle  that  it  was  time 
he  was  doing  something.  If  Skelly  told  him,  even  with 
solicitude,  '  you  canna  manage  that,  faither,'  his  face 
would  turn  foolish,  and  he  would  put  down  the  boot, 
keeping  his  back  to  his  son  as  he  tried  mightUy  to  regain 
his  composure.  But  the  gods  are  kind  to  the  patient. 
Skelly  would  perhaps  say,  '  You  micht  wash  up  the 
dishes,  faither  :  I  'm  a  wee  thrang  the  nicht.'  And  the 
old  man  was  reprieved.  The  kitchen  had  suddenly 
become  a  home  as  he  began  splashing  in  the  jaw-box. 
Soon  he  was  wheezing  snatches  of  a  sea-chantey. 

Skelly  would  look  up.  *  Gie  's  the  tither  ane, 
faither — '  and  then 

'  Times  are  bad  an'  wages  low, 
Leave  her,  Johnnie,  leave  her ' ; 

and  the  heart  of  Hector  Cochran  jumping  for  joy  as  he 
sang  to  his  son.  .  .  . 


BARNACLES  47 

More  than  ever  to-night  it  leapt  for  joy,  for  this  man 
Barnacles  was  going  to  get  him  his  pension.  He  would 
be  independent.  He  could  help  Skelly.  He  could  buy 
the  world.     This  Barnacles  was  an  angel  of  light. 


The  Pension  Officer,  though  an  official,  was  neither 
cold  nor  dry  in  manner.  He  was  not  even  precise.  The 
fact  is  he  had  aged  parents  who  also  enjoyed  the  bounty 
of  the  Government.  Constantly  licking  his  lips  with 
his  tongue,  he  examined  the  document  Barnacles 
offered,  and  said  he  must  see  Mr.  Cochran.  At  the 
same  time  he  asked  Barnacles  if  it  were  true  that  the 
Paisley  races  were  to  be  revived. 

'  What  races  ?  '  asked  Barnacles. 

'  Horses,' 

*0h!   I  don't  know.' 

'  Thought  you  might.  You  have  an  air.  P'raps  it 
is  the  specks.' 

*  Could  I  get  work  there  ?  '  said  Barnacles,  leaning 
eagerly  forward. 

'  Work  ;  it  isn't  work  ;  it 's  betting,  gambling, 
cheering,  waving  your  hat,  excitement ;  two  to  one  bar 
one  on  the  field  ;  you  understand ' :  the  official  made  a 
smacking  noise  with  his  tongue. 

'  I  think  I  shall  go  away,'  answered  Barnacles,  '  I 
have  to  look  for  a  job.' 

He  stood  on  the  pavement  without  and  looked  at 
the  sky. 

'  Dear  me,'  he  murmured,  *  life  here  is  very  confused  ; 
waving  your  hat ;  excitement ;  two  to  one  on  the  field.' 


48  BARNACLES 

Barnacles  took  his  off  and  mopped  his  forehead. 

He  went  to  the  Police  Station,  and  looking  at  the  fine 
castellated  edifice,  thought  he  should  like  very  much  to 
work  there.  It  was  a  great  blow  to  him  to  be  told  by  a 
jesting  lieic'enant  of  police,  that  however  noble  it  is  to 
be  single-eyed  metaphorically,  it  has  its  disadvantages 
viewed  literally. 

*  I  am  sorry  I  can  only  see  with  one  eye,'  said  Bar- 
nacles. The  way  he  answered  touched  the  heart  of 
the  lieutenant,  who  stopped  jesting,  and  bade  him 
good-bye  with  the  utmost  respect. 

Happy  Barnacles  !  He  did  not  peep  at  the  police- 
men he  passed  with  even  the  littlest  pang  of  envy. 
Happy  Barnacles,  taking  every  new  blow  as  if  it  were 
the  fii'st,  his  misfortune  no  more  to  him  than  a  fall  to 
a  child  who  in  a  little  rises,  his  tears  gone,  his  pain 
forgotten,  and  his  eyes  open  to  nature  again. 

When  he  returned  to  Skelly's  he  found  the  seaman  in 
the  greatest  state  of  excitement.  He  ran  to  Barnacles 
at  once. 

*  Thank  ye,  thank  ye,  my  freend  ;  the  pension  skipper 
was  here  ;  I  'm  to  get  five  shillings  a  week.  Is  my 
mind  right,  Skelly — five  shillings  every  week  round  the 
compass.  Oot  o'  the  doldrums  at  last.  An'  I  hae  the 
mairraige-lines  safe  happit  in  the  kist.  Thank  ye,  thank 
ye.'  He  could  not  keep  stiU,  but  was  running  about  the 
floor.     '  Thank  ye  ;  what 's  your  name  ?  I  don't  mind.' 

*  Barnacles,'  said  Barnacles. 

The  old  man  stopped  in  the  midst  of  this  hilarity. 

*  Barnacles,  eh  !   are  ye  a  sailor  ?  ' 

*  No  !   I  'm  nothing  as  yet.' 

The  brave  tone  did  not  deceive  Skelly.  He  looked 
up,  dripping  knife  in  hand,  from  frying  black  puddings. 


BARNACLES  49 

'  Did  ye  go  to  the  jyle  ?  ' 

*  Ay  me,'  said  Barnacles,  '  I  can  only  see  with  one 
eye/ 

'  Damn  it ! '  ejaculated  Skelly,  *  there  's  a  wheen 
bobbies  caima  see  wi'  their  twa.' 

The  ancient  mariner  approached  Barnacles  and 
whispered  sympathetically :  '  Dinna  heed ;  tak  aff 
your  hat ;  mak  yersel  at  hame.' 

As  Barnacles  meekly  took  off  his  hat  the  seaman 
slyly  whipped  it  out  of  his  hand  and  deftly  jerked  it 
on  to  the  bed. 

'  There  noo,'  the  whisper  grew  more  tense,  '  ye  're 
a'  richt.'  He  then  raised  his  voice  shriUy,  *  What  '11 
he  dae  noo,  SkeUy ;  let  go  his  anchor,'  and  lowering 
his  voice  again  to  Barnacles,  '  dinna  be  feart  or  blate  ; 
I  hae  the  pension.' 

Barnacles,  smiling  at  the  excited  old  man,  said, 
'  What  I  would  like  to  do  now,  if  you  don't  mind,  is  to 
play  the  violin.' 

The  old  man  burst  out  gleefuUy :  *  Is  this  no'  the 
hoose  ?  I  'm  gaun  to  bide  in  the  nicht,  SkeUy ;  the  close 
is  caul'  an'  draughty.     All  snug  aloft,  IMr.  Mate.  .  .  .' 

At  this  moment  a  precious  tissue  of  sound  began  to 
embroider  the  diugy  room  as  with  cloth-of-gold.  The 
eyes  of  the  player  saw  neither  waUs  nor  frowsy  house 
across  the  street.  Skelly  had  left  the  frying-pan  and 
was  sitting  on  the  edge  of  the  jaw-box.  Now  and 
again  he  hummed  between  his  teeth.  He  was  holding 
his  head  perceptibly  higher.  Hector  the  seaman  stood 
immediately  in  front  of  Barnacles,  gazing  at  him  as  if  he 
were  the  ghostly  commander  of  the  Flying  Dutchman. 
The  boy  had  crept  to  Barnacles'  side,  and  was  looking 
up  open-mouthed  at  the  gleaming  back  of  the  violin. 


50  BARNACLES 

Barnacles  had  again  met  with  misfortune  ;  but  about 
him  nevertheless  were  strains  of  a  triumphant  music. 
The  squalid  room  was  flooded  with  a  mighty  magnifi- 
cence of  melody.  It  was  glowing  like  fire,  soaring 
with  inspiration,  swelling  with  beauty.  It  melted  away, 
and  as  it  was  about  to  die  it  breathed  out  the  haunting 
air  of  '  The  Auld  Hoose.'  Once,  twice  he  played  it, 
touching  holiness,  sobbing  sorrow  for  what  was  and  is 
no  more.  It  ceased.  The  poor  room  had  yet  a  holy 
breathing  in  it,  the  vibration  of  angels'  wings. 
Barnacles,  pale  and  aU  shaken,  was  conscious  of  a 
voice,  and  saw  the  figure  of  an  old  man  with  thin  white 
hair  before  him. 

'  That  was  the  auld  hoose  whaur  my  mother  bided, 
an'  I  was  a  wee  cullan.  There  was  no  hard  times  ; 
there  werena  caul'  closes  ;  it  was  the  auld  hoose  ;  it 's 
a'  by  noo.' 

'  No,  no,'  said  Barnacles,  pale  yet  with  ecstasy.  *  It 
is  aU  yet  to  be.  He  will  say,  "  Come,  you  old  seaman 
who  have  stood  on  the  stormy  deck,  I  have  a  haven  ; 
come,  you  poor  old  man,  there  are  no  straitened 
circumstances  with  Me."  '  Barnacles  raised  his  arm 
and  pointed  upwards  with  the  violin,  '  There  are  no 
cold  closes,  no  single  apartments  there.  Poor  mortals 
who  have  to  pay  for  everything  here  in  money  or  tears 
or  blood,  you  will  pay  nothing  there.  It  is  a  place  of 
many  mansions  rent-free  '  ;  his  voice  rose  fuU  and 
swelling,  '  Christ  has  paid  the  rent  long,  long  ago.' 

His  arm  dropped  to  his  side.  No  one  spoke.  They 
seemed  to  be  waiting  for  something — some  answer. 
All  at  once  the  silence  was  broken  by  the  child,  who 
tentatively'  put  out  a  finger  and  touched  a  trembling 
string  to  life.    The  action  of  the  boy  and  the  twang  of 


BARNACLES  51 

the  string  broke  the  spell.     The  boy  felt  this,  and 
backed  away  scared. 

*  Do  it  again,  little  man,'  and  Barnacles  held  the 
violin  towards  wee  Kitchener. 

'  Wull  ye  be  angry  ? ' — a  hand  hesitated  in  the  air. 

Barnacles  smiled  down  on  the  white  eager  face,  and 
the  smile  reached  the  boy's  heart.  The  thin  fingers 
began  plucking  at  the  strings.  As  Barnacles  patiently 
held  the  violin  he  was  conscious  that  a  presence  was 
lacking  in  the  room — one  brooding  and  beneficent. 

'  Has  he  no  mother  ?  '  asked  Barnacles. 

SkeUy,  who  was  again  at  the  frying-pan,  said  over  his 
shoulder,  '  She  's  deid  an'  gone  lang  syne.' 

Barnacles  suddenly  stooped  and  kissed  the  boy. 

*  You  and  me  are  to  be  chums,'  he  said. 

Wee  Eatchener  gave  him  a  shy  smile,  and  held  out 
a  bolder  hand  towards  the  violin  strings. 

When  they  had  sat  down  to  the  tea  and  black 
puddings.  Barnacles  said  to  SkeUy  : 

'  Do  you  sell  fish  because  your  father  was  at  sea  ?  ' 

*  No,'  answered  SkeUy,  bursting  out  laughing,  *  I 
couldna  get  a  job  when  I  cam  hame  frae  the  Boer  War.' 

'  It  is  a  confused  world,'  said  Barnacles  in  a  com- 
miserating tone,  '  and  so  far  as  I  know  you  have  no 
violin  like  me  to  cheer  and  console  you.' 

*  Hach,'  spluttered  the  reservist,  '  we  micht  be  waur 
aff.  I  hae  my  pension.  The  Aibbey  minister  signs  a 
blue  paper  for  me  every  quarter,  an'  the  money's  in 
my  haun.  It 's  the  winter  taks  it  oot  o'  ye  trampin' 
in  the  rain.  I  got  a  bit  o'  a  wound  in  the  leg  an' 
whiles  it  bites  ;  but  we  micht  be  waur.  An'  noo  faither 
has  got  his  pension  we  'U  be  a'  richt.  We  're  obliged 
to  ye  for  lookin'  aifter  it.' 


52  BARNACLES 

The  reference  to  his  pension  roused  the  old  man. 

*  It 's  been  run  n  in'  through  my  heid,  Skelly,  that  I 
hae  gotten  my  pension  at  lee-lang  last.* 

'  Ay,'  said  Skelly,  '  I  doot  ye  hae.' 

*  An'  him  there  that  wan  it  for  me  is  oot  o'  a  job.' 

*  Ay,  faither.' 

*  It  was  runnin'  through  my  heid  keepin'  time  wi' 
the  tune  that  I  '11  gie  him  mine's.  I  dinna  need  it  noo 
that  I  'm  independent,  dae  I,  Skelly  ?  ' 

*  I  doot  no,  faither.' 

*  What  dae  ye  say  ?  your  name 's  slippit  me  again  ; 
what 's  your  mind  ?  Ye 've  lost  your  deid  reckonin' ;  will 
ye  tak  my  bit  job  till  ye  haul  on  your  ain  course  again  ? ' 

'  No,  no  ;  I  can't  take  the  bread  out  of  your  mouth.' 

*  It  wasna  breid,'  snorted  the  old  man,  *  it  was  nae 
mair  nor  hardtack.  I  'm  scaured  o'  my  life  onywy  at 
the  wark,  am  I  no',  SkeUy  ? ' 

'  Ye  are,'  said  Skelly  in  a  merry  tone. 

*  What  is  it  you  do  ?  you  are  so  old,'  said  Barnacles. 

*  Scoor  glesses  an'  tumblers  in  a  public-hoose  on 
Setterday  nichts.' 

'  I  don't  quite  understand,'  said  Barnacles. 

Hector  the  seaman  was  getting  quite  excited  again. 
He  had  never  had  such  a  splendid  conversation  for 
years — even  with  blind  Ned. 

*  Weel,'  he  drew  his  fingers  through  his  hair,  *  Macaffer 
took  me  on  years  ago  for  a  chucker-out ;  puttin'  oot 
drunk  men  when  they  were  makin'  a  noise.  Nooadays 
I  couldna  chuck  oot  a  flea ;  but  I  'm  handy  cairryin' 
roond  the  glesses  an'  wipin'  the  tables.  When  I  ax 
them  to  gang  awa  hame  an'  no'  be  makin'  a  noise  they 
respec'  me  an'  they  gang.  But  whiles  I  'm  feart  some- 
body as  do£sna  ken  me  'ill  gie  me  a  clout  on  the  jaw. 


BARNACLES  58 

Ay !  I  '11  gie  up  noo.  Is  it  no'  runnin'  through  my 
held  that  I  hae  gotten  my  pension.  Ck)me  doon  on 
Setterday  nicht  at  ten  o'clock,  an'  I  '11  speak  to  the 
foreman  for  ye.  They  '11  think  twice  afore  they  stairt 
in  to  cloor  the  likes  o'  you.' 

*  I  shall  be  very  glad,'  said  Barnacles.  He  pondered 
a  moment  and  added  gravely,  '  I  think  you  were  right 
to-day  when  you  said  it  was  God  brought  me  here.' 

'  Ay,'  answered  the  old  man.  *  He  has  led  me  over 
the  stormy  seas,  an'  brought  me  safe  to  hairbour.'  He 
turned  to  his  son,  *  I  '11  bide  in  the  nicht,  Skelly ;  it 's 
caul'  in  the  close ' ;  and  again  to  Barnacles,  '  Folk  in 
Paisla'  an'  the  big  toons  dinna  fear  God.  They  '11 
never  learn  to  say  their  prayers  till  they  're  on  the  top- 
gallants off  the  Horn  amang  the  sleet  an'  snow.  It 's 
thon  that  '11  put  the  fear  o'  God  into  them.'  .  .  . 

Skelly  got  up,  saying  he  must  go  and  look  to  the 
pony.     *  I  've  an  early  start  the  morn,'  he  said. 

He  had  to  be  up  before  six  o'clock,  and  drive  into 
Glasgow  to  be  at  the  Fish  Market  when  it  opened. 

The  old  man  was  overjoyed.  Barnacles  and  he 
were  left  to  clear  the  table  and  clean  the  dishes.  The 
old  man  sang  and  chattered,  roUing  out  his  sea-jargon 
with  extreme  volubility. 

In  the  midst  of  all  this  a  tap-tapping  of  a  stick  was 
heard  in  the  passage,  and  a  hand  feeling  over  the  door. 

'  It 's  bHn'  Ned,'  chirped  the  old  man. 

Next  moment  the  blind  man  was  in  the  room,  where 
he  had  never  been  before,  asking  if  he  too  might  hear 
the  violin. 

Skelly  returned.  Barnacles  played  on  through  the 
gathering  dusk,  with  wee  Kitchener  close  at  his  side, 
until  Skelly  putting  a  penny  in  the  slot  lit  the  gas. 


54  BARNACLES 

Then  Barnacles  put  the  violin  away,  drew  his  black 
portmanteau  from  beneath  the  bed,  took  out  a  book, 
and  without  introduction  began  to  read  aloud  the  first 
tale  from  The  Arabian  Nights. 

The  stick  of  the  blind  man  was  at  rest.  Wee 
Kitchener  crept  to  his  father's  knee  ;  Hector  the  sea- 
man forgot  the  cold  close  ;  Skelly  the  nipping  of  his 
wound.  No  one  heard  the  rain  on  the  window  or  the 
wind  moaning  in  the  dark  courtyard  below. 


XI 

It  was  *  pay  Saturday,'  a  night  of  trial  for  Hector  the 
seaman.  His  back  was  aching,  his  knees  trembling. 
Every  time  he  looked  at  the  clock  he  whispered,  '  It  '11 
soon  be  ten  ;  I  hae  got  my  pension ;  I  '11  never  cairry 
another  tray  aifter  the  nicht.' 

He  had  a  cloth  over  his  shoulders  with  which  to  dry 
the  tables  and  wipe  the  glasses.  It  was  the  badge  of 
his  servitude. 

Since  seven  o'clock,  when  tea  was  over,  and  the  foot- 
ball matches  were  brought  into  judgment  at  the  bar, 
he  had  been  kept  runniag.  It  was  now  nine  o'clock. 
The  public-house  was  full  of  smoke,  talk,  the  clinking 
of  glasses  :  the  bar  full  of  men  ;  the  tables  aU  occupied. 
Hector,  carrying  a  loaded  tray,  collided  with  a  drunk 
and  noisy  young  man.  Only  by  the  greatest  dexterity, 
the  fruit  of  long  practice,  had  he  saved  a  smash.  He 
dodged  to  this  side  and  that  imploring  : 

'  Hae  some  sense,  man,  an'  let  me  by.' 

'No!  but  I '11  hae  a  drink.' 

Hector  was  unable  to  defend  his  trust.     A  hand 


BARNACLES  55 

pounced  on  the  tray  and  seized  a  glass.  If  the  scene 
continued,  all  chance  of  bringing  the  man  who  had 
played  the  violin  and  got  him  his  pension  into  suc- 
cession would  vanish.  He  was  to  ask  for  this  job 
to-night.  Thoroughly  frightened,  he  sought  to  dodge 
the  hilarious  corsair  who  hung  upon  the  tray. 

*  Man  !  man  !  what  dae  ye  want  followin'  me  like  a 
wee  dog  1  '  he  said  almost  in  despair. 

'  I  want-sh — a,  drink-sh.' 

*  Let  me  alane  ;  I  'm  only  an  auld  man  ;  it 's  no'  my 
whisky.' 

*  You  be  damned — see-sh — ^ane — o' — thae.* 

One  of  Paisley's  engineers  who  had  been  working 
overtime  entered  the  pubUc-house  and  took  in  the 
scene  as  he  crossed  to  the  bar. 

*  Here  you,'  he  grunted,  '  let  the  auld  chap  alane.' 

'  Who-sh  inter  —  inter  —  f ersh  —  with  you  —  damn 
black-sh — face.' 

The  wet  cloth  was  plucked  off  Hector's  shoulder  and 
flung  in  the  face  of  the  bully. 

*  Let  that  cool  yours  onywy,'  said  the  engineer. 

A  row  started.  The  foreman  came  from  behind  the 
bar,  and  catching  the  pirate  by  the  shoulders  pushed 
him  towards  the  door.  As  he  was  being  ejected  he 
screamed  at  Hector : 

'  By  God,  I  'U  eat  ye  when  I  lay  hand-sh — ^lay 
hand-sh ' 

The  comers  of  Hector's  lips  drooped  as  he  went  about 
his  duties.  He  stole  many  glances  at  the  foreman. 
Could  he  ever  get  the  job  now  for  Barnacles  1  If  not, 
he  would  be  ashamed  to  go  home.  And  the  bully 
would  be  waiting  for  him  in  the  street.  Twice  he  tried 
to  ask  the  protection  of  men  about  the  bar,  but  his 


56  BARNACLES 

courage  failed  him.  He  hoped  he  would  not  be  badly 
hurt.  What  would  Skelly  say  ?  He  was  feeling  sick 
— a,  palpitation  like  a  hammer  was  in  his  side. 

The  bar  emptied.  The  lights  were  put  out  one  by 
one,  and  the  place  became  mournful  and  vast.  He 
could  scarce  sweep  away  the  sawdust  round  the  bar. 
At  last  he  was  finished,  and  sank  down  at  one  of  the 
tables  faint  and  breathless.  He  heard  the  front  door 
being  locked  and  barred,  and  the  chink,  chink  of  money 
being  counted.  This  made  him  think  of  his  pension,  and 
a  faint  smile  stole  across  his  face.  The  foreman  came 
towards  him  ;  and  his  heart  began  to  beat  faster  than 
ever.    He  was  forced  to  press  it  down  with  his  hand. 

*  Not  feeling  well.  Hector  ? ' 

'  No,'  he  managed  to  whisper.  *  I  've  a  wee  kin'  o' 
pain  in  the  side.    My  hert  's  beatin' ' 

The  foreman  went  away.  Hector  closed  his  eyes. 
Was  his  pension  too  late  after  all  ? 

*  Drink  this.  Hector ;   it  'U  put  some  smeddum  in 

ye.' 

He  opened  his  eyes  and  saw  the  foreman  offering  him 
a  glass.     He  could  scarce  believe  it. 

'  Ye  're  waitin'  on  me,'  he  whispered  incredulously. 
He  drank  the  brandy,  and  it  revived  him  wondrously. 

*  See  here,  Hector,'  the  foreman  spoke  in  a  kindly 
voice  and  laid  a  hand  on  his  shoulder,  '  your  waiting 
days  are  by  ;  it 's  time  you  were  getting  a  rest.' 

This  was  his  chance.     His  heart  leaped  up. 

*  If  ye  winna  objec'  there  's  a  freen  o'  mine  I  wad  like 
to  put  in  a  word  for.' 

*  All  right.  Hector  ;  who  is  he  ? ' 
Hector  was  puzzled. 

*  He  got  me  my  auld-age  pension,'  and  he  advocated 


BARNACLES  57 

eagerly,  '  he  plays  the  fiddle  like  a  lord,  an'  reads  story- 
books, an' — an'  he  has  the  fear  o'  God  in  him.' 
The  foreman  smiled. 

*  Tell  him  to  come  and  see  me  on  Monday.  Have 
you  got  your  pension  ?  ' 

*  I  hae,  God  be  thankit !  I  've  weathered  the  Hungry 
Forties  at  lee-lang  last.' 

He  tottered  to  his  feet.  The  foreman  pressed  a 
parcel  into  his  hands.  '  A  presentation,  Hector,  for 
long  years  of  faithful  service.' 

Seeing  the  ready  tears  of  those  unaccustomed  to 
kiadnesses,  he  added,  '  Hoots,  man ;  it 's  only  a  few 
sandwiches  and  pies  ;  they  'd  be  hard  by  Monday.' 

And  as  he  handed  the  old  man  his  pay  he  gave  him 
also  a  small  bottle  of  brandy. 

*  Take  a  wee  drop  when  you  feel  bad,  Hector.' 
Hector  the  seaman,  overwhelmed  by  this  kindness, 

left  the  public-house  by  the  back  door,  forgetting  all 
about  his  enemy.  He  was  wiping  his  eyes  as  he  peered 
down  at  the  steps,  and  was  clutching  the  parcel  to  his 
breast. 

XII 

There  was  no  inimical  face  in  sight ;  and  he  shuffled 
along,  his  heart  high,  his  parcel  under  his  arm.  The 
thoroughfare  was  bright  and  full  of  the  Saturday 
night  people — ^artisans  out  with  their  wives  ;  women 
shopping  ;  groups  of  young  girls — all  of  them  imcon- 
sciously  enjoying  that  freedom  which  is  defended 
from  the  drudgery  of  Monday  by  the  buffer  day  of 
Sunday.  There  was  a  holiday  air  abroad,  and  the 
night  itself  was  gentle. 


58  BARNACLES 

A  good  way  up  the  street  a  crowd  had  gathered. 
Hector  at  first  thought  some  one  had  had  an  accident ; 
but  coming  nearer  he  heard  '  Annie  Laurie  '  being 
played  on  a  mouth  harmonium.  Pressing  forward,  he 
was  astonished  to  see  that  the  player  was  wee  Kitchener. 
A  stout  woman  with  rusty  black  clothes  and  bugles 
nodding  in  her  bonnet  and  a  basket  in  her  hand  spoke 
to  him. 

*  He 's  that  thin  an'  white,  purr  wean  ;  p'r'aps  he 's 
neither  faither  nor  mither.' 

She  took  a  penny  from  her  purse  and  threw  it  into 
the  ring.  As  if  this  were  a  signal,  other  coins  began  to 
foUow. 

At  this  moment  the  ring  was  pierced,  and  Hector, 
trembling,  saw  the  drunk  man  of  the  public-house  beside 
his  grandson. 

'  Gie-sh  the — Barren — Rock-sh — of  Aden.' 

Wee  Kitchener  looked  up  at  him  with  eyes  of  fear 
and  began  playing  *  The  Flowers  of  the  Forest.' 

*  The  thin  white  wean  that  he  is,'  sighed  the  fat 
woman. 

The  drunk  man,  whose  hands  had  been  moving  spas- 
modically to  the  plaintive  cadence,  picked  the  boy's 
cap  off  his  head,  searched  in  his  pockets  and  found 
some  coppers.  He  put  these  in  the  cap  and  went 
round  the  crowd. 

*  Pey — upsh — Barren — Rock-sh.' 

He  reached  Hector,  who  tried  to  crouch  away. 

*  Pey  up — smert — damn  auld — mishert ' 

Hector  the  seaman  dropped  a  shilling,  two-thirds  of 

his  pay,  into  the  cap. 

The  drunk  man  began  stufl&ng  the  coins  into  the 
boy's  pockets. 


BARNACLES  59 

*  Awa  hame — afore — ye  're — robbit ' — he  hiccuped  ; 
and  began  to  dance  in  the  ring. 

Some  of  the  folk  were  laughing  and  applauding ; 
others  were  drifting  away.  Among  them  the  fat 
woman,  who  said  : 

*  Some  o'  thae  men  are  faur  better  drunk  nor  sober.' 
Hector  darted  to  the  edge  of  the  crowd  and  signalled 

to  wee  Kitchener.     The  barefoot  boy  came  and  put 
his  hand  in  the  old  man's. 

*  Kitchener,'  he  quavered,  '  were  ye  no'  frichtened 
amang  a'  thae  folk  ?  ' 

'  Ay,  grandfaither,'  he  answered,  wiping  his  little 
turned-up  nose  as  he  trotted  along. 
'  What  made  ye  dae  't  then  ?  ' 

*  Barnacles.' 

*  Barnacles  !  !  ' 

'  Ay  !  I  heard  him  say  to  faither  he  was  gaun  to 
play  the  fiddle  in  the  street.  So  I  thought  I  wad  play 
my  mooth-organ.' 

'  Does  Barnacles  ken  ?  ' 

'  No,  grandfaither  ;   wuU  he  be  angry  ?  ' 

*  No,  Kitchener,  he  'U  no'  ;  but  we  '11  no'  let  on.' 
As  the  boy  trotted  on  sniffing,  and  the  coins  jingling 

in  his  pocket,  the  old  man  said  : 

'  I  'm  no'  gaun  to  stand  at  the  close  ony  mair, 
Kitchener  ;   I  'm  to  get  my  pension  next  Friday.' 

'  Ay,  grandfaither,  I  'm  pleased.' 

The  old  man  was  a  little  out  of  breath.  He  stopped 
and  looked  at  the  boy. 

'  Dae  ye  ken  what  I  'm  gaun  to  buy,  Kitchener  ? ' 

*  Ay,  grandfaither  ;   a  bag  o'  pastry  an'  a  knife.' 

*  No !  no !  Kitchener.  I  'm  no'  carin'  for  pastry. 
If  I  tell  ye,  ye  '11  no'  cheep.' 


60  BARNACLES 

'  No,  grandfaither.* 

The  old  man  bent  down  and  put  his  hand  to  his 
mouth.      '  A  pilot  reefer  jaicket.' 
'  Whit 's  that,  grandfaither  ?  ' 

*  It 's  what  the  captains  weir,  Kitchener  ;  ye  '11  no 
cheep  a  word.' 

They  walked  on.  The  old  man  glanced  again  at  the 
boy.  Something  naked,  lonely,  homeless  about  the 
child  was  forced  on  the  consciousness  of  the  aged 
dreamer. 

*  Kitchener,'  he  said,  his  voice  shaking,  *  I  '11  buy  ye 
a  pair  o'  buits  as  weel.' 

*  I  'm  no  heedin'  for  buits,  my  feet's  no'  caul'.' 
'  An'  whit  are  ye  heedin'  for  ?  ' 

*  A  bag  o'  pastry,  grandfaither,  an'  a  knife.' 

At  that  moment  they  came  into  Causeyside  Street, 
and  saw  the  head  of  Barnacles  towering  above  a  deep, 
silent  crowd.  On  his  face  was  the  smile  which  teaches 
us  that  man  is  divine.  His  eyes  had  that  look  seen 
oftener  in  the  paintings  of  the  Great  Masters  than  in 
the  face  of  living  beings  which  betrays  our  kinship  to 
the  Infinite.  A  nameless  beauty  of  radiancy  was  in  his 
countenance.  The  very  tones  of  his  violin  spilling 
glory  upon  the  street  seemed  to  blossom  from  him. 

Hector  the  seaman  was  tremendously  proud  of  the 
friendship  of  this  man  whose  playing  held  the  crowd 
spellbound,  and  in  that  luminous  hour  in  which  the 
golden  gates  were  also  lifted  up  for  him,  the  miseries 
and  cruelties  and  fears  of  the  public-house  vanished 
away  for  ever.  He  smiled  around  at  the  intent  faces  ; 
he  nodded  and  made  rude  gestures,  and  was  only 
recalled  to  himself  by  wee  Klitchener,  who  was  tugging 
at  his  sleeve. 


BARNACLES  61 

*  Whit  wy  is  Barnacles  no'  gettin'  money,  grand- 
faither  ?  ' 

The  old  man  peered  at  Barnacles. 

*  Kitchener,'  he  whispered  excitedly,  '  Barnacles  has 
forgotten  a'  aboot  the  money.  Tak  your  kep  an' 
gang  roond.' 

The  boy,  taking  courage  from  his  grandfather, 
extended  his  cap  timidly  to  one  and  to  another.  The 
mute  appeal  of  his  large  dumb  eyes,  no  less  than  the 
effect  of  the  music,  helped  rapidly  to  fill  the  cap. 

All  at  once  Barnacles'  eyes  rested  upon  the  boy. 
A  sense  of  the  quiet  tragedy  of  this  child  begging  moved 
him.  Pity  and  shame  overwhelmed  him.  He  suddenly 
stopped  playing.  Those  in  the  crowd  saw  his  features 
become  distorted  as  if  he  were  in  a  passion. 

*  Good  God,'  he  cried,  '  what  a  world ! '  and  stepping 
to  the  boy,  picked  him  up  in  his  arms,  and  pushed  his 
way  through  the  crowd. 

*  Never,  never,  never,'  he  was  saying  to  the  trembling 
lad,  '  let  me  find  you  doing  that  again.  You  must 
never  beg.' 

Wee  Kitchener  began  to  cry. 

*  Are — ^you — ^angry  ? '  he  gulped. 

*  Yes  ;  I  'm  angry,  I  'm  angry  ' — Barnacles  gazed 
around  as  if  to  find  some  one  to  accuse — '  that  a  child 
has  to  beg  before  men  and  women.'  His  body  was 
quivering  with  anger.  '  Good  God,  what  a  sight,  what 
an  outrage ! ' 

He  heard  his  name,  and  looking  back  saw  the  seaman 
panting  towards  them. 

'  Kitchener,'  he  jerked  out  when  he  came  up, 
'  sclim  doon  an'  rin  an'  buy  a  tin  o'  saumon.  You  're 
mither  was  gey  an'  fond  o't.' 


62  BARNACLES 

*  Ay,  grandfaither,  an'  a  bag  o'  pastry.* 

*  Ay  !  ay  !  Skelly  will  be  pleased  if  we  bring  some- 
thing hame  for  the  bre'kfast.' 

And  while  the  boy  was  spending  part  of  his  earnings 
on  the  delicacy  which  his  mother  had  esteemed, 
Hector  told  Barnacles  that  she  had  died  of  consumption 
in  the  fever  hospital  while  Skelly  was  in  South  Africa 
fighting  the  Boers.  Skelly  could  neither  read  nor 
write,  and  when  he  came  back  he  said  : 

'  An'  whaur  's  the  missis  ?  ' 

'  She  's  deid,'  said  the  old  man. 

Skelly  reeled  on  the  floor  as  if  struck  with  a  bullet. 

'  Deid ;  an'  I  'm  leevin'  aifter  a'  thon  oot  yonder.'  .  .  . 

'  We  must  be  a  mother  to  the  boy,'  said  Barnacles, 
and  when  he  appeared,  wee  Kitchener  was  once  more 
picked  up  and  carried  home. 

Hector  the  seaman,  who  carried  the  tinned  salmon 
and  the  violin,  was  feeling  the  terrible  weakness  creeping 
again  at  his  heart.  The  sweat  came  out  on  him  as  he 
ascended  the  stairs.  As  soon  as  he  got  inside  the  door 
he  handed  Barnacles  the  violin  and  SkeUy  the  bottle 
of  brandy,  and  sank  on  the  floor.  He  lay  on  his 
back,  his  eyes  closed,  his  breathing  so  faint  that  he 
seemed  dead.  Barnacles  undid  the  collar  and  tie 
which  the  old  man  wore  on  Saturdays  in  order  to  clean 
whisky-glasses.  SkeUy  poured  some  brandy  into  a 
spoon  and  held  it  to  his  father's  mouth.  The  old  man 
swallowed  the  liquid,  gave  a  long-drawn  sigh,  and 
opened  his  eyes.  They  fell  on  the  anxious  face  of  Skelly. 
An  oppressive  silence  which  had  enveloped  him  and 
seemed  about  to  claim  him  eternally  melted  away 
before  that  anxiety.  Slowly  the  colour  began  to  flow 
back  into  the  livid  cheeks. 


BARNACLES  68 

*  Are  ye  feelin'  better,  faither  ?  ' 

*  I  'm  just  a  bother  to  ye,  Skelly.' 

*  Bother  !  bother  !  '  said  Skelly  angrily  ;  *  ye  were 
never  a  bother  to  me  a'  your  days.  I  wish  ye  were 
twenty  times  the  bother.' 

A  glad  light  leapt  into  the  worn  face. 
'  Are  ye  shair,  Skelly  ?  ' 

*  Ye  're  just  an  auld  fule,'  said  Skelly  laughing. 
*  I  'm  gaun  to  mak  ye  a  warm  cup  o'  tea.' 

The  old  man  nodded.  '  For  us  a' ,'  he  whispered  timidly. 

And  Skelly  as  he  rose  from  his  knees  laughed  the 
laugh  of  relief  which  has  a  wee  sob  in  its  heart. 

The  old  man  beckoned  on  Barnacles,  who  knelt 
beside  him. 

*  It 's  fine  to  be  no'  weel,'  he  whispered ;  '  did  ye  hear 
thon  ?  I  was  never  a  bother  to  him  a'  my  days,  never  a 
bother,  never  a  bother.'  He  glanced  at  Skelly  who  was 
at  the  fire  :  '  Is  he  no'  the  guid  son  ?  he  's  makin'  tea. 
I  'm  no'  in  the  way.  Ye  ken — ^the  auld  hoose.  I 
winna  staun  in  the  close  ony  mair.  I  'm  gled  I  wasna 
drooned  at  sea.' 

Barnacles,  who  was  beginning  to  understand  some- 
thing of  the  timidity,  the  sensitiveness,  the  exile,  the 
paternal  hunger  in  the  heart  of  this  old  man,  leaned 
down,  and  like  a  fellow-conspirator  whispered  : 

'  Skelly  would  break  his  heart  if  anything  came  over 
you.' 

'  Did  he  say  that  ?  what  was  it  he  said  ?  ' 

'  Just  what  I  told  you,'  answered  Barnacles  gravely. 
And  as  Barnacles  arose  it  was  difficult  to  say  who  was 
the  happier — the  old  man  or  he. 

Immediately  he  was  on  his  feet  he  saw  something 
which  made  his  heart  stand  stiU  for  a  moment  in  pity 


64  BARNACLES 

and  immense  compassion.  Wee  Kitchener  was  looking 
down  at  the  old  man  with  a  forlorn  face.  One  finger 
was  in  his  mouth,  and  a  single  large  tear  in  the  comer 
of  his  eye. 

There  was  something  in  this  mute  distress  more 
poignant  to  Barnacles  than  even  the  collapse  of  the 
seaman.  It  was  the  first  tear  the  child  had  ever  shed 
for  another.  There  was  something  sacred  and  at  the 
same  time  terrible  in  the  sight. 

'  Kitchener,'  he  said  softly. 

The  boy  took  his  finger  out  of  his  mouth  and  looked 
at  him.  Instinctively  Barnacles  began  to  smile,  and 
the  smile  broadened  almost  into  laughter.  Slowly  the 
answer  came  into  the  frightened  little  face — a  ghost  of 
a  smUe  at  first,  which  soon  grew  radiant  and  shone 
through  the  wet  eyelashes.  Barnacles'  heart  swelled 
with  joy.  He  had  driven  something  dark  away  from 
that  trembling  breast.  In  that  moment  the  boy  had 
needed  above  all  her  who  had  died  in  the  consumption 
ward.  Barnacles  felt  he  had  taken  her  place.  The 
maternal  presence,  tender,  infinite,  wondrous  kind, 
was  in  the  room.  The  smile  on  wee  Kitchener's  face 
broadened  till  it  was  almost  a  grin.  He  turned  with 
interest  to  his  father  cooking  at  the  fire. 

The  fight  against  mysterious  sorrow  had  been 
silently  won  by  Barnacles  and  the  boy — with  the  aid 
of  a  ghostly  third. 

xni 

The  old  man  had  recovered ;  wee  Kitchener  was 
asleep ;  the  salmon  tin  had  been  opened ;  and  Barnacles 
was  preoccupied.     He  had  gone  out  to  the  stair-head 


BARNACLES  65 

for  the  tin  of  salmon  which  had  fallen,  and  had  listened 
at  the  door  of  the  blind  man.  It  was  like  the  grave 
inside.  This  silence  oppressed  Barnacles.  Had  they 
not  even  one  single  thing  to  talk  about  ?  It  must  be 
terrible  for  the  blind  man.  He  spoke  to  SkeUy  about 
it  when  he  came  back. 

'  They  've  nae  time  for  talkin'  in  there,'  said  Skelly. 
'  Sanny — him  that 's  in  the  moulding  shop — taks  his 
supper  an'  just  gangs  to  bed.  He  's  up  at  the  back 
o'  five  o'clock.  It  nearly  braks  his  mither's  he'rt 
waukenin'  him.  We  're  no'  slaves  in  this  toon  o' 
Paisla,  ye  ken,  but  some  hasna  time  to  talk  to  a  bHn' 
brither.' 

Before  Barnacles  could  reply  Hector  the  seaman 
piped  : 

*  I  clean  forgot  aboot  that,  SkeUy.  I  was  sweirin' 
I  wadna  staun  in  the  close-mooth  ony  mair,  but  I 
clean  forgot  blin'  Ned.  It 's  me  talks  to  him  aboot  the 
China  Sea  an'  Iquique.  Ay  !  ay  !  I  see  I  maun  gae 
back  to  the  close.  It 's  nane  that  caul' ;  I  've  tholed  it 
noo  for  ten  years  ;  surely  I  can  put  up  wi't  a  wee  whilie 
langer,  an'  me  wi'  my  pension  too.' 

Barnacles  was  silent.  He  was  fast  learning  about 
the  sufferings  of  men.  He  remembered  also  the  sight 
of  the  tear  which  had  opened  his  soul — a  tear  which 
was  gaining  a  sublime  significance.  It  was  a  window 
by  which  he  looked  into  the  heart  of  the  Sufferer-in- 
Chief  and  made  him  think  of  the  Man  of  Sorrows. 
Suffering,  he  recognised,  is  the  profile  of  love.  Surely 
it  was  not  a  light  saying,  but  one  bom  of  tears  and 
blood,  *  Blessed  are  they  that  inoum.'  As  Barnacles 
pondered  thus  and  connected  the  blind  man  and  wee 
Kitchener  by  a  common  bond  he  cried  out : 

E 


66  BARNACLES 

*  It  is  the  eyes  full  of  tears  that  behold  heaven ; 
it  is  the  blind  who  sit  in  a  dumb  house  that  hear  un- 
heard melodies.'  He  rose  from  his  place  at  table  and 
went  to  the  bed.  For  a  long  minute  he  gazed  at  the 
thin  face  of  the  boy.  '  Christ  be  gracious  to  you,  my 
boy,'  he  said,  and  returning  to  the  table,  added, 
*  The  tears  of  children  water  the  gardens  of  Paradise  ' 
— he  leaned  his  elbows  on  the  table  and  gazed  at 
Skelly — '  and  the  light  which  has  been  denied  the 
blind  is  lighting  heaven.  "  There  shall  be  no  night 
there."     Skelly,  we  'U  go  to  church  in  the  morning.' 

*  No'  me,'  answered  SkeUy  tartly ;  '  I  haena  the 
clothes  for  the  Aibbey.'  He  looked  quizzically  at  his 
garments,  '  I  doot  if  they  wad  let  me  in.' 

The  old  man  having  finished  eating  was  engaged  on 
one  of  those  whimsies  on  which  simple  minds  near 
dotage  love  to  dweU.  He  picked  his  teeth  with  a  fork, 
ran  his  fingers  through  his  hair,  and  spoke  almost  from 
the  table,  so  bowed  was  he  with  age.  '  Is  it  no'  strange 
here  in  the  middle  o'  Paisla  we  're  a'  connecit  wi'  the 
sea  ?  You  're  Barnacles,  you  know — a  deep-sea  name. 
SkeUy's  seUin'  fush,  an'  I  was  roond  the  Horn  five 
times.' 

'  Ay,'  answered  Skelly  with  laborious  sarcasm,  '  an' 
we  're  a'  eatin'  saumon.  An'  maybe  wee  Kitchener 
'iU  go  for  a  saU  on  the  Cart  or  ane  o'  the  burns  roond 
Paisla.' 

Barnacles  had  an  inspiration : 

*  I  wiU  take  him  to-morrow,'  he  said,  *  to  a  burn  1 
know  at  the  foot  of  the  Gleniffer  Braes.' 


BARNACLES  67 


XIV 


Over  the  tall  chimney-stalk  of  Coats's  Mill  a  faint 
cloud  of  smoke  hung.  Elsewhere  the  atmosphere  was 
clear.  Beyond  the  Clyde  marched  the  blue  Kilpatrick 
bills  as  if  they  had  been  newly  created  in  the  spring 
morning.  Ben  Lomond  glittered  in  the  North  cowled 
in  white  as  for  the  solemn  day.  From  the  Clyde  came 
the  grunt  of  a  siren.     It  was  tide-time  on  the  river. 

Also  in  Paisley  streets  there  was  a  tide.  Men  were 
walking  with  their  wives  on  the  only  occasion  in  which 
they  performed  this  duty  during  the  week.  They 
passed  or  met  their  cronies  with  grave  face,  saluting 
them  solemnly  by  raising  their  hats.  Though  there 
were  many  people  there  was  little  talk.  The  silence 
of  the  town  was  broken  mainly  by  the  tread  of  boots. 
These  cross-currents  of  black-dressed  men  and  women, 
carrying  Bibles,  met  and  passed  in  the  Square,  for  in  the 
vicinity  of  the  Square  stand  many  of  the  churches  of  the 
town.  But  in  the  midst  of  the  Square  one  young  man 
stood  motionless.  All  who  passed  him  by  took  a 
prim  Sunday  glance  at  him,  and  then  a  more  fixed 
look.  For  his  attitude  was  arresting.  He  had  not  the 
air  of  one  awaiting  a  friend,  nor  did  he  appear  to  be 
going  to  church.  He  had  no  such  look  of  propriety 
as  men  carry  with  them  into  the  streets.  He  occupied 
the  Square  as  if  it  was  his  own  house. 

Barnacles  was  listening,  for  over  the  town  there 
floated  a  melody  of  bells.  Clear  and  sweet  they  rang 
out  on  the  still  spring  morning — one  of  the  echoes  on 
earth  of  the  eternal.  The  four  solid  walls  of  the 
Square  with  their  arterial  streets  running  off  surrounded 


C8_  BARNACLES 

him  on  every  hand,  but  he  was  m  reality  in  a  vast 
cathedral.  The  shining  music  overhead,  wandering 
with  the  brightness  of  the  sun  over  the  grey  sleeping 
roofs,  was  stirring  a  divine  sweetness  in  his  breast. 
The  solemn  rich  sounds  were  not  rising  from  things 
made  by  the  hands  of  men ;  they  were  falling  out  of  the 
blue  skies  upon  the  grave  morning,  and  mingling  with 
the  subdued  melody  of  that  listening  soul.  Barnacles 
was  conscious  of  something  vague  yet  profound  which 
the  harmony  in  the  air  alone  could  answer.  A  glow 
came  upon  his  spirit.  A  world  of  nestling  birds  was 
alive  within  him  and  without  him,  round  about  and 
aloft. 

*  Beautiful  beUs,'  he  breathed,  *  mount  up  to  the 
throne  of  music  in  the  heavens.' 

At  this  juncture  he  heard  a  voice  saying  : 
'  Oh  !  it 's  you.' 

Barnacles  peered  through  his  spectacles  and  saw  a 
man  and  two  women. 

'  Don't  you  know  me  ? '  said  the  man. 

*  No,'  answered  Barnacles. 

*  What !  and  you  gave  me  a  book — what  was  it 
again  ? — The  Apology  for  Socrates ;  splendid  stuff 
in  it.' 

'  Yes  !  I  remember,'  answered  Barnacles.  '  I  didn't 
recognise  you  in  these  clothes.' 

One  of  the  women  burst  out  laughing. 

The  banker  looked  down  his  frock  coat  and  said  : 

*  I  'm  going  to  church,'  as  if  in  apology  for  his  dress. 

*  So  am  I,'  answered  Barnacles.  *  When  I  have 
finished  listening  to  the  bells.' 

*  Aren't  they  glorious  ?  '  one  of  the  ladies  said. 

*  I  wish  I  was  a  bell-ringer,'  Barnacles  answered  her. 


BARNACLES  69 

The  banker  introduced  him  to  the  lady  who  had  spoken 
— ^Mrs.  Gilfillan,  his  wife. 

*  My  name  is  Brocklehurst,'  said  Barnacles,  '  but  my 
friends  call  me  Barnacles.' 

'  I  have  heard  of  you  from  my  husband,'  said  the 
lady  merrily.     '  I  think  I  shall  call  you  like  a  friend.' 

*  And  this  lady,'  said  the  banker,  '  is  Mrs.  Norman- 
shire.' 

Barnacles  held  out  his  hand  to  her.  All  he  was 
conscious  of  was  her  high  bearing,  and  a  head  of  snow- 
white  hair.  He  marvelled  at  this,  for  she  was  young, 
and  of  a  clear  complexion. 

*  Will  you  come  with  us  ?  we  are  going  to  the  Abbey,' 
said  Mr.  Gilfillan. 

Barnacles  assented. 

*  I  expected  you  to  call  on  me,'  said  the  banker  as 
they  moved  across  the  Square. 

Barnacles  grew  red  with  confusion. 

*  I  had  forgotten.' 

*  Come  and  see  me  on  Friday  evening.  You  have 
my  address.     I  have  spoken  to  some  people  about  you.' 

'  Thank  you,'  said  Barnacles  absently.  He  had 
suddenly  realised  the  strange  silence  that  fell  upon  the 
town.  The  dying  bells  were  lingering  on  the  air  and 
drifting  far  away. 

They  were  now  walking  up  among  the  tombstones 
towards  the  door  of  the  ancient  and  historic  fane. 

Barnacles  turned  to  Mrs.  Normanshire. 

'  One  goes  in  here  in  the  presence  of  the  dead.' 

They  were  just  entering  the  door  of  dark  carved 
stone.  She  gave  Barnacles  a  look  of  gratitude,  and 
was  about  to  say  something,  but  being  now  in  the  vesti- 
bule she  checked  it.    Once  more,  however,  she  looked  at 


70  BARNACLES 

him,  and  as  Barnacles  met  her  look  and  saw  for  the 
first  time  her  lovely  face,  he  thought  of  the  breast  of  the 
sea  fuU  of  calm  and  flushed  with  an  autumn  sunset. 
And  when  he  stood  beside  her  and  heard  her  sing  in 
the  church  her  voice  was  like  the  bells,  full  and  clear, 
sweUing  up  also  to  the  throne  of  music  in  the  heavens. . . . 

When  Barnacles  reached  Skelly's  house  he  gave  a 
visiting-card  to  the  fish-hawker. 

'  Please  let  me  have  this  on  Friday  morning,'  he  said. 

'  What  is  it  ?  ' 

'  It 's  a  job  ' — Barnacles  face  grew  confused — *  and 
perhaps  also,'  he  added  truthfuUy, '  I  may  hear  a  woman 
with  white  hair,  who  has  a  magnificent  voice,  sing.' 

Then  Barnacles  told  the  story  of  the  visiting-card. 

'  It  is  amazing,'  he  ended, '  how  a  man's  footsteps  are 
led.  I  saw  a  tear  in  the  eye  of  wee  Kitchener  last  night, 
and  it  sent  me  to  church,  and  there  I  met  these  people.' 

'  Wha  are  they  ?  '  asked  Skelly. 

Barnacles  read  from  the  card  Mr.  Gilfillan's  name 
and  address. 

'  Castleheid,'  said  Skelly,  in  a  voice  of  contempt,  '  a 
swell.'  He  despised  the  rich  because  they  lived  off  the 
poor,  and  had  suffered  many  like  him  who  had  been 
broken  in  war  to  be  cast  adrift. 

*  Never  mind,'  said  Barnacles,  '  the  sun  shines  here 
as  well  as  in  Castlehead,  and  the  bells  call  over  every 
roof  humble  or  grand.  It 's  not  the  house,  Skelly ; 
it 's  the  heart  that 's  in  it.' 

Skelly  was  softened  by  this  answer,  which  he  felt  was 
a  tribute  to  his  own  home. 

*  Man,'  he  said,  with  admiration  in  his  face,  '  it  '11 
tak  a  lot  to  baud  ye  doon.  Barnacles.  You  're  like 
the  birds  I  used  to  chuck  stanes  at  aifter  dark  when  I 


BARNACLES  71 

was  a  laddie.  It  was  only  when  ye  flang  a  stane  they 
began  to  whustle.  It  'U  tak  a  lot  to  defeat  you,'  said 
SkeUy  the  soldier. 

Barnacles  smiled. 

'  You  cannot  be  defeated  when  there  's  nothing  in 
you  to  defeat,'  he  said. 

'  There 's  plenty  o'  stuff  in  ye  onywy,  if  it 's  no'  the 
stuff  that  can  be  defeated,'  Skelly  answered  stoutly. 
'  I  canna  gie  't  a  name ;  but  ye  mak  a  man  feel  good.  I 
haena  kent  it  was  Sunday  for  mony  a  lang  day  till  noo.' 

'  And  wee  Kitchener  and  I  are  going  for  a  Sunday 
walk  to  Gleniffer  Braes,'  said  Barnacles. 

*  Nae  fears,'  said  Skelly  sharply,  *  he  's  nae  buits  ; 
if  we  'd  a'  oor  ain  in  this  warld  he  'd  be  cled  an'  shod 
an'  maybe  your  freend  wadna  be  gantin'  his  heid  aff 
in  Castleheid  the  day.' 

'  Perhaps  you  are  right,  SkeUy,'  answered  Barnacles 
sadly, '  often  the  purple  of  the  rich  is  dyed  with  the  heart- 
blood  of  the  poor  ;  but  that  has  nothing  to  do  with 
Kitchener.  If  he  went  barefoot  yesterday  he  can  to-day.' 

'  This  is  Sunday,'  said  SkeUy  dourly,  as  he  lifted  the 
pot  of  Irish  stew  off  the  fire. 

*  Oh  !  Skelly,  Skelly  !  let  him  come ;  perhaps  heaven 
will  see  the  naked  feet  better  out  there  beneath  the 
sky,  and  send  us  a  way  of  getting  boots.' 

'  Let  me  gang,  faither  ;  I  'm  no  heedin'  aboot  buits.' 
Skelly  regarded  his  son  for  a  moment  with  misty  eyes. 

*  Hae  your  wy,'  he  said  gruffly  to  Barnacles.  .  .  . 
The  events  of  this  day  were  not  over.     After  dinner 

Hector  the  seaman  handed  Barnacles  the  page  of  the 
Glasgow  Herald,  in  which  the  gift  of  pies  from  the 
foreman  had  been  made  up. 

*  Deep-water  ships  ;    Iquique,  Valparaiso,  Sydney  ; 


72  BARNACLES 

ye  micht  read  me  oot  the  Shipping  News,'  he  said 
excitedly. 

Barnacles  searched  the  page  of  advertisements  in 
vain.  '  There  's  nothing  of  that  kind,'  he  said.  Just 
then  his  eye  caught  the  following  : 

*  Wanted  young  man  of  good  education,  wUling  for 
small  fee  and  board  to  act  as  amanuensis.' 

Barnacles  read  it  out. 

'  That 's  naethin'  to  dae  wi'  deep-water  ships,'  said 
Hector  testily. 

*  No,'  answered  Barnacles  thoughtfully,  '  but  it 's 
work  that  I  '11  apply  for.  There  may  be  a  star  rising 
here  out  of  a  newspaper  brought  from  a  pubUc-house.' 

And  to  wee  Kitchener  on  their  way  to  a  glorious 
ride  in  a  tram-car — ^the  first  part  of  the  journey  to  the 
Braes — ^Barnacles  said,  '  I  wonder,  my  child,  if  heaven 
put  this  paper  in  my  way  to  get  you  boots.' 

*  I  'm  fine  as  I  am,'  answered  wee  Kitchener,  sniflSng 
as  he  trotted ;  and  his  eyes  were  full  of  confidence  and 
gladness. 

As  for  Skelly  he  was  washing  the  shirt  of  his  son  for 
to-morrow's  school,  and  thinking,  as  always,  when  at 
such  a  duty,  of  the  dead  hands  which  would  have 
rejoiced  over  this  work.  He  now  took  opportunity  to 
perform  those  tasks  when  Barnacles  was  absent. 


XV 

Barnacles,  who  had  forgotten  the  public-house  on 
Monday,  accompanied  Skelly  and  grandmother  pony  to 
the  Glasgow  Fish  Market.  Every  day  now  he  assisted 
Skelly,  and  in  the  evening  played  his  violin  for  alms 


BARNACLES  78 

in  the  streets.  But  first  of  all,  after  tea,  he  went 
over  with  wee  Kitchener  his  lesson  for  school  next 
day. 

Hitherto  Skelly  was  wont  to  ring  a  bell  in  the  streets. 
He  still  did  this,  but  Barnacles  improved  matters 
considerably  by  carrying  the  fish  to  the  doors.  On 
Wednesday  afternoon  of  his  first  week  at  this  work 
he  returned  from  one  of  these  forays  with  a  white 
face,  because  he  had  just  seen  a  dead  baby.  The 
illusiveness  of  life,  the  intangibleness  of  its  pos- 
sessions, and  the  precariousness  of  its  tenure  were 
centred  on  that  tiny  face  around  whose  stillness  a 
shrill  battle  was  raging.  Barnacles  was  dumbfounded 
at  the  death  and  the  quarrel.  It  was  all  a  reproach 
against  Life.  From  the  close-mouth  he  beckoned  on 
SkeUy. 

*  What 's  ado  ? '  asked  Skelly,  approaching. 
Words  came  with  difficulty  from  Barnacles. 

'  There  'g  something — wrong — with  the  world.' 
'  Ay  !   I  told  ye  that  on  Sunday — ye  mind — Castle- 
heid  ;  hae  ye  fin'  it  oot  noo  that  ye  're  sellin'  fush.' 

*  It 's  not  that — ^not  that — come  in  here.' 

A  young  girl  distracted  with  grief,  with  her  hands 
pressed  hard  on  her  cheeks,  was  gazing  wildly  at  the 
dead  baby.  A  dark-haired  woman  of  some  sixty 
years,  with  a  debauched  face  and  a  blue  weal  across 
the  left  cheek-bone,  stood  up  from  stooping  over  a 
skillet  as  the  two  men  entered.  This  woman,  the  girl's 
stepmother,  was  a  widow.  Her  husband  had  been 
killed  in  a  curious  manner.  He  was  a  slater  and  along 
with  others  had  been  washing  with  concrete  the  walls 
of  a  factory.  Two  stages  had  been  rigged  up,  sup- 
ported by  ropes  passed  over  the  roof  and  fastened  on 


74  BARNACLES 

the  other  side.  A  portion  of  the  wall  had  been  finished, 
and  it  was  necessary  to  shift  the  staging — vacated  for 
this  purpose  by  its  two  tradesmen.  One  of  the  men 
went  to  the  back  of  the  factory  to  slacken  the  ropes  of 
this  staging,  but  by  some  mischance  slackened  the 
ropes  of  the  other.  One  of  its  occupants,  who  fell  on 
his  head,  survived ;  the  other,  crashing  down  on  his  back, 
was  killed.  His  widow  received  compensation,  and 
Barnacles  found  his  daughter  fighting  with  all  the 
fierceness  of  maternal  love  for  some  of  this  money,  in 
order  to  purchase  a  cofi&n  for  her  dead  baby.  The 
stepmother,  who  hated  the  girl,  swore  she  had  spent  her 
last  shiUing  on  a  shroud — '  Only  for  me  the  brat  wad 
be  burit  in  its  rags,'  she  cried. 

When  Skelly  learned  the  sad  intelligence  of  No.  9 
back  stair,  one  up,  right,  he  pointed  out  that  the 
parochial  authorities  would  bury  the  child.  The  step- 
mother denied  this.  She  had  been  there.  She  con- 
cealed from  Skelly  the  knowledge  which  Parochialism 
possessed  of  her  compensation. 

Wherefore  you  behold  Skelly  cursing  Parochialism 
and  offering  his  herring-box.  He  will  wash  it  and  paint 
it  and  lay  it  fit  for  a  baby  in  the  offertory  of  the  chancel 
of  Death.  Had  he  not  buried  men  without  even  that 
shadow  of  a  home,  in  the  great  graves  beside  the  waters 
of  the  Tugela  ? 

The  older  woman  called  upon  his  head  the  blessing 
of  heaven,  but  the  girl  wheeled  from  the  bed  like  a 
tigress. 

'  Is  my  bonnie  wee  wean  to  be  buried  in  a  herrin'- 
box?' 

'  Awa  then  an'  get  his  faither  to  bury  him,'  sneered 
the  stepmother.     The  girl  put  her  hands  on  her  face, 


BARNACLES  75 

pressing  the  nails  into  the  cheeks,  and  making  low 
moaning  sounds. 

*  Nanny  Lusk  had  a — white — coffin — for  her  ane,' 
she  sobbed  at  length,  and  lifted  her  haggard  eyes  to 
the  cob-webbed  window  as  if  the  patch  of  visible  sky 
were  hung  with  white  coffins. 

'  The  insurance  burit  Nanny  Lusk's,'  the  stepmother 
gloated. 

There  was  silence  in  the  room.  The  house  of  Lusk 
seemed  to  triumph.  Its  chariot-hearse  bearing  a  white 
baby's  coffin  from  the  office  of  an  Lisurance  Company 
thundered  over  a  herring-box  in  tragic  splendour  to 
the  cemetery  at  a  premium  of  a  penny  a  week.  Ah  ! 
Skelly  !  Skelly  !  who  dug  the  graves  across  the  salt 
seas  at  Tugela  River  ?  And  were  the  coffins  really 
white  there  ?  And  was  the  premium  a  penny  a  week  ? 
Was  it  not  so  much  as  a  whole  shilling  a  day  ?  Have 
you  remembered  these  things,  or  is  it  the  girl's  piteous 
cry  which  startles  you  ?  '  I  'm  gaun  whaur  I  '11  get  the 
price  o'  a  white  coffin.' 

Like  the  old  campaigner  you  are,  you  restrain  the 
crazy  young  mother,  saying  soothingly  : 

'  We  '11  bring  you  a  coffin  to-night.' 

And  Barnacles  !  why,  he  has  at  last  found  his  voice  : 

'  A  white  coffim  ;  a  white  coffin — ^yes — ^to-night — 
I  will  sell  my  violin ' 

Good  SkeUy  !  As  you  stable  little  grandmother  in 
its  leaky  hovel  and  examine  the  galls  which  the 
harness  has  made,  for  it  chafes  infernally,  you  whisper 
in  her  ear  that  to-morrow  she  is  going  on  new  work — 
no  less  than  to  carry  a  little  white  coffin  to  the  cemetery. 
To-night  you  cannot  meet  her  dumb  look  over  her 
shoulder   which   says,    '  I  've   dragged   your   cart   to 


76  BARNACLES 

Glasgow  and  back  and  through  Paisley's  streets  all  day 
in  a  raw  wind,  and  I  'm  tired  and  hungry.' 

For  aU  your  soldiering  you  are  a  coward,  SkeUy,  and 
have  not  the  courage  to  confess  outright.  '  Only  half 
a  feed  to-night,  Maggie ' — the  other  Maggie  left  you 
mysteriously  in  a  fever  hospital  when  you  were  at  the 
wars — '  only  a  half -feed,  Maggie ;  we  must  make  up  the 
price  of  a  baby's  coffin.  The  other  Maggie  would 
approve.' 

You  need  not  curse  Parochialism  with  soldiers'  oaths, 
thinking  to  hoodwink  a  hungry  pony,  nor  dribble  in 
half  a  feed  as  if  it  were  a  feast.  You  who  never  fled 
from  the  enemy  to  fly  from  the  stable  !  Nor  need 
you  have  closed  the  door  so  softly,  locking  up  suffering 
Patience  in  the  draughty  dark.  You  know  she  is  too 
tired  to  think  of  crawling  out  any,  any  more. 

Does  her  good-night  whinny  sting  your  heart  then  ? 
Does  that  plaintive  bleat  reveal  to  you  a  nobler  plan  ? 
Good  Skelly  !  open  the  door  again  ;  pour  in  the  other 
half -feed  as  quickly  as  if  the  beast  were  starving  to 
death.  It  is  dark.  No  one  can  see  your  arm  about 
the  scraggy  neck.  No  one  can  hear  your  heart  whisper- 
ing '  Maggie  ' ;  but  we  aU  know  that  these  many  years 
the  beast  has  kept  Maggie's  bairn  in  life.  How  tough 
the  old  hide  is  where  it  touches  your  own  rough  cheek. 
Were  you  not  then  hardened  in  the  wars,  SkeUy,  that 
there  appears  to  be  one  spot  of  the  scraggy  hide  wet  ? 

Oh  no,  you  are  not  hungry  to-night.  A  touch  of 
the  old  African  fever  has  spoiled  your  appetite.  Yes, 
faither,  tred  was  good  to-day ;  a  roarin'  tred.  Arid 
how  are  you  not  eating  ?  You  have  walked  leagues  of 
causey-stanes,  and  your  throat  is  hoarse  crying  on  the 
women  to  come  and  buy  cheap  fish.    Yet  you  dare  the 


BARNACLES  77 

old  seaman  to  boil  the  black  pudding.  You  to  feel 
faint  with  hunger  who  have  tramped  across  South 
Africa.  Yes !  yes !  tred  was  good ;  the  whitings 
melted  off  the  cart  like  snowflakes.  It  is  worth  the 
lie  to  see  the  anxious  look  vanish  like  a  snowflake  also 
from  the  seaman's  face.  No  !  then !  you  will  not 
have  an  egg.  You  know  how  to  draw  in  your  belt 
another  hole.    You  learned  that  also  in  the  wars. 

He  is  so  glad,  the  foolish  old  man,  that  your  fish  have 
sold  so  weU  to-day  that  he  does  not  notice  you  are  not 
smoking  to-night ;  nor,  you  know,  to-morrow  night, 
nor  all  the  nights  of  this  African  fever  causing  loss  of 
appetite  until  you  have  saved  the  price  of  a  baby's 
coffin. 

Ah  !  SkeUy  !  Skelly  !  what  an  Insurance  Company 
is  an  old  Reservist's  heart !  Have  you  not  to-night 
somehow  won  your  V.C.  in  the  teeth  of  that  terrible 
challenge,  *  I  'm  gaun  whaur  I  '11  get  the  price  o'  a 
white  cofifin '  ? 

For  it  is  not  seemly,  Skelly,  that  with  the  price  of 
shame  you  should  bury  your  love-child.  .  .  . 

And  is  that  why  Barnacles  is  absent  so  early  to-night, 
offering  his  beautiful  melodies  in  the  streets  at  the 
doors  of  the  public-houses  ?  .  .  . 

*  Faither,  Barnacles  didna  teach  me  my  lesson  the 
nicht.' 

'  No,  son ;  he  's  awa  helpin'  a  wee  baby  an'  her 
mither  the  nicht ;  try  an'  warsle  awa^  yersel.' 

*  It 's  no'  the  lessons,  faither.' 

*  Is  't  no,  son  ?  ' 

*  Barnacles  taks  me  on  his  knee  an'  puts  his  airm 
roond  my  shouther.' 

Skelly  gathers  the  child  to  his  own  knee  and  says  : 


78  BARNACLES 

*  Barnacles  has  aye  got  his  airm  roond  somebody's 
shouther.' 

'  Times  are  bad  an'  wages  low, 
Leave  her,  Johnnie,  leave  her ' — 

a  voice  is  quavering  in  the  midst  of  the  splashing  of 
water.  Hector  the  seaman  has  quietly  seized  the 
chance  and  is  washing  the  dishes. 

He  alone  of  the  house  in  Cotton  Street  is  untroubled. 


XVI 

Though  Barnacles,  when  he  got  his  first  lessons  on  the 
violin,  also  received  teaching  in  Agnosticism  from  a 
clock-repairer,  maker  of  violins,  and  cobbler,  yet  he 
believed  in  the  Deity ;  and  though  it  is  a  sign  of  the 
times  that  three  Scotsmen  living  together  for  as  many 
weeks  never  spoke  of  God,  yet  Barnacles  in  the  house 
of  SkeUy  in  Cotton  Street  insisted  that  a  minister  be 
got  to  help  to  bury  the  baby.  The  other  matters  in 
respect  of  the  obsequies  had  been  arranged,  Hector  the 
seaman  having  said,  '  I  '11  get  the  hearse ;  I  hae  my 
pension  noo,  ye  ken.' 

'  Ay,  faither,'  answered  Skelly  dryly,  '  but  your 
pension  canna  buy  a'  the  warld.' 

Hector  concealed  his  confusion  by  turning  his  face 
away,  for  he  thought  SkeUy  was  angry  with  him.  He 
had  been  going  to  propose  that  day  to  buy  a  pilot 
reefer  jacket :  perhaps  his  pension  then  could  not  do 
everything.  He  had  a  sinking  at  the  heart,  and  felt  so 
stupid  that  he  never  heard  them  decide  that  little  grey 
grandmother  and  her  shallow  cart  would  draw  the 
tiny  white  coffin  to  the  cemetery.     If  only  the  sheep 


BARNACLES  79 

were  there !  It  would  have  been  a  monumental 
procession.     All  this  being  arranged,  Barnacles  asked  : 

'  Is  nothing  to  be  said  for  mother  and  child  in  the 
name  of  God  ?  ' 

SkeUy,  who  had  been  at  many  burials  without  a 
minister  across  the  salt  seas,  growled  : 

'  One  man  's  as  good  's  another  in  God's  sight.' 

Hector  the  seaman  propitiated  his  angry  son. 

*  Off  the  Horn  we  committed  a  Swede  to  the  deep 
withoot  a  minister.' 

'  But  this  is  Paisley,'  urged  Barnacles,  '  and  we  are 
surrounded  by  ministers.' 

'  I  Ve  never  seen  one  here,'  Skelly  said. 
Barnacles  insisted. 

*  You  are  prejudiced  on  some  things,  Skelly.' 

'  I  dinna  like  the  breed ;  but  it  doesna  maitter  to 
me,'  he  yielded  grudgingly.  SkeUy,  who  also  believed 
in  God,  had  in  India  known  a  parson  whom  from  canton- 
ments he  had  carried  home. 

Barnacles  had  difficulty  in  finding  the  residences  of 
the  ministers — so  great  difficulty  that  the  forenoon 
was  spent  in  interviewing  three.  Rather  he  arrived 
at  three  residences.  One  minister  was  not  at  home. 
Another  crustily  asked  Barnacles  to  what  church  he 
belonged,  and  then  said  that  the  street  of  the  dead 
baby  was  outside  his  parish.  The  third  stood  on  his 
doorstep  and  said  the  notice  was  too  short.  He  was 
going  to  attend  a  meeting  of  a  public  board. 

*  Courage,  my  soul,'  said  Barnacles  to  himself  as  he 
hurried  away,  and  thought  how  SkeUy  had  seen  soldiers 
who  had  died  for  their  country  being  buried  without 
the  clergy.  Yet  the  sight  of  a  church  as  he  passed 
saddened  him. 


80  BARNACLES 

He  entered  a  bookseller's  shop.  A  little  middle- 
aged  man,  with  a  fresh  pleasant  face  and  contemplative 
eyes,  showed  him  a  copy  of  a  book  suitable  for  a 
funeral.  It  cost  half  a  crown.  Barnacles  shook  his 
head. 

*  Is  there  nothing  cheaper  ?  ' 

*  Yes,'  answered  the  bookseller,  *  there  is  the  Bible.* 
Barnacles  bought  the  New  Testament  for  a  sixpence, 
and  hurried  home,  ashamed  that  his  lack  of  a  Bible 
had  been  discovered  to  him  by  a  dead  baby. 

*  Well  ?  '  asked  SkeUy. 
Barnacles  shook  his  head.         .^ 

*Ye  winna  tak  a  teUin'.'  SkeUy's  tone  was  sym- 
pathetic.    '  Did  they  no'  ask  ye  whaur  ye  were  frae  ? ' 

*  I  forget — one  of  them  did,  I  think.' 

'  Hach  !  '  said  Skelly,  '  they  're  just  a  wheen  peeries 
spinnin'  in  their  ain  noise  ;  but  they  ken  whaur  to 
spin.  The  folk  in  oor  close  never  hear  the  name  o' 
Christ  except  in  an  oath.  Ye  '11  no'  see  us  in  the  Square 
on  Sunday  mom  when  the  kirk  beU  's  ringin' .  Sunday 's 
no'  made  for  the  like  o'  us.  The  bobby  wad  think  we 
were  trespassin'.  We  just  creep  oot  in  the  daurk  o' 
the  evenin'  when  a'thing  's  quate.' 

The  passion  in  these  words  moved  Barnacles. 

*  SkeUy,'  he  said,  *  will  you  come  with  me  next 
Sunday  morning  to  the  Square  and  listen  to  the  bells  ? 
It 's  heavenly.' 

*  I  wull  not,'  answered  Skelly ;  '  they  're  a  holy  frost. 
See  's  your  boots.' 

Barnacles  sighed  and  watched  Skelly  clean  the  boot. 

*  Skelly,'  he  said,  *  the  things  we  know  least  about 
are  the  things  we  are  most  cocksure  of.  You  would 
like  the  beUs.' 


BARNACLES  81 

*  Hach  !  '  answered  Skelly,  '  what 's  the  use  o' 
arguin'  wi'  you  ;  ye  'd  find  an  excuse  for  auld  Nick 
himsel.     See  's  the  other  boot.' 

But  Barnacles  cleaned  the  other  boot  himself. 

Then  all  three — Barnacles,  Skelly,  and  the  pony — 
went  to  bury  the  baby.  The  mother,  dishevelled, 
followed  to  the  close-mouth,  crying  in  a  paroxysm  of 
grief,  '  My  wean,  0  my  bonnie  wee  wean  ! '  Barnacles 
was  softly  weeping.  Skelly,  having  laid  the  coffin  on 
the  cart,  covered  it  from  prying  eyes  with  a  sack. 

Barnacles  was  to  perceive  further  how  cruel  is  the 
world.  The  child  was  buried  in  common  ground — a 
parcel  of  ground  in  a  comer  of  a  graveyard,  where  a 
trench  is  dug,  and  is  kept  open,  save  for  a  roof  of 
boards,  as  coffin  after  nameless  coffin  goes  into  it  until 
it  is  filled. 

They  learned  at  the  massive  gates  of  the  cemetery 
that  it  would  cost  money  to  take  the  funeral  equipage 
within  the  grounds.  Wherefore  Skelly  left  grand- 
mother Patience  without  the  gates.  Barnacles,  who 
insisted  that  he  would  carry  the  coffin,  discovered  that 
it  had  no  name-plate.  The  poor,  whom  Parochialism 
put  in  common  ground,  all  went  this  unrecorded  way, 
and  their  dust  mingled  in  an  obscure  grave,  said  Skelly. 
As  for  this  baby — he  did  not  know  ;  perhaps  it  had 
no  name  ;   it  was  a  waif. 

'  But  now  no  longer,'  answered  Barnacles,  taking  up 
the  coffiLn  under  his  arm ;  '  its  brief  wanderings  are 
ended.  God  grant  the  child  has  come  into  the  city 
that  hath  no  sunset,  crying,  or  hunger.' 

And  so  they  went  to  the  common  grave. 

Now  a  woman  was  there  carrying  a  wreath.  She  had 
watched  the  strange  spectacle  of  a  white  coffin  being 

V 


&2  BARNACLES 

discovered  beneath  the  sack,  and  when  she  saw  Bar- 
nacles she  followed  the  two  men  at  a  distance.  The 
common  grave  was  hard  by  some  bushes  :  and  the 
woman  drew  near  beside  the  bushes.  A  keeper  of  the 
cemetery  removed  the  planks  which  roofed  the  grave. 
Within  lay  a  long  black  coffin,  on  the  top  of  which,  at 
its  head,  they  laid  the  tiny  coffin. 

'  So  much  land,'  said  SkeUy  bitterly,  gazing  round 
the  fields  and  hills  of  Renfrewshire,  *  an'  we  canna  gie 
the  wee  lass  a  bit  soil  o'  her  ain.' 

'  It  is  better  so,  Skelly.  The  white  coffin  is  in  the 
arms  of  the  big  one.  Perhaps  a  childless  woman  lies 
below,  and  in  the  Great  Day  when  she  wakens  up  she 
wlU  gather  the  wee  waif  to  her  breast.' 

The  woman  behind  the  bushes  lifted  a  comer  of  her 
veil  and  touched  away  a  single  tear  with  her  fore- 
finger. 

The  keeper  of  the  cemetery  had  gone  away  without 
replacing  the  planks — ^perhaps  because  the  day  was 
fine.  On  departing  he  had  thrown  a  handful  of  soil 
on  the  foot  of  the  white  coffin.  This  pious  act  on  the 
part  of  a  stranger  aroused  the  anger  of  SkeUy. 

*  Where  is  the  faither  ?  what  sort  o'  toJff  is  he,  passin' 
himsel  off  for  a  fine  chap  among  the  girls  that  go  to  his 
mother's  house  ? '  he  demanded  fiercely  of  Barnacles. 

*  P'r'aps  he  isn't  that  at  all,'  answered  Barnacles 
sadly. 

'  It 's  a'  ane  what  he  is.  I  wish  I  had  him  here  naked 
and  a  sjambok  in  my  fist.  I  'd  gie  him  hell  for  leather. 
Thon  girl — she  'U  be  in  the  street  yet.' 

*  We  must  guard  her,  SkeUy,'  said  Barnacles  earnestly. 
Skelly  looked  quizzically  at  him. 

*  WuU  ye  mairry  her  ?  ' 


BARNACLES  88 

Barnacles  flushed.  '  No  !  I  can't  do.  that ;  I  have 
no  home.' 

'  Then  ye  're  a  pair/  said  Skelly  ironically.  '  See  here, ' 
he  stamped  on  the  ground,  '  there  's  no'  a  blade  o' 
grass  aboot  this  grave.  It 's  ane  o'  the  forgotten  spots. 
May  the  faither  o'  the  bairn  hae  as  little  shelter  yet 
ower  his  heid.  May  he  hear  the  wean's  cry  in  heaven 
an'  his  faither's  he'rt  wauken  at  it  an'  loup  up  when  he  's 
in  the  torments  o'  hell ' 

'  Don't,  Skelly,'  Barnacles  pleaded,  with  pain  in  his 
eyes  and  voice,  '  don't ;  you  are  only  making  things 
worse.' 

A  little  way  off,  among  some  tangle,  primroses  were 
in  bloom.  Skelly  went  and  plucked  one  and  returned 
to  the  grave.  '  See  that,'  he  said — ^the  flower  shining 
with  pale  gold  lay  in  the  midst  of  his  hard  palm, — 
'  that 's  the  wy  he  found  the  lassie.'  He  closed  his 
fist  and  opened  it  again.  Three  pairs  of  eyes  were 
fastened  on  the  crushed  and  bleeding  flower.  Skelly 
made  a  gesture  of  despair,  and  flung  the  broken 
primrose  on  to  the  white  coffin.  They  stood  looking 
at  it  in  silence. 

'  Dust  to  dust,'  said  Skelly  ;  '  there  lies  the  mother's 
he'rt  on  the  coffin  o'  her  wean.' 

He  swore  an  oath  and  moved  away. 

But  Barnacles  went  into  the  grave  and  picked  up  the 
flower  and  put  it  in  his  pocket.  When  he  overtook 
Skelly  he  said,  '  It  is  not  dust  to  dust.  I  don't  believe 
that  the  love  which  the  dead  had  is  dust  beneath  our 
feet.' 

Skelly  made  no  answer. 

'  Skelly,  do  you  believe  that  the  tenderness  of  your 
wife  is  dust  ?  ' 


84  BARNACLES 

Skelly  turned  round  on  him  with  flashing  eyes. 

*  Let   me   alane,  will  ye  1    let  me  alane — by  God !  * 
They  reached  the  gate  in  silence. 

Barnacles  suddenly  came  to  a  dead  halt.  *  WiU  you 
please  wait  for  me,  Skelly  ? '  he  said  quietly, '  I  'm  going 
back  to  the  grave.' 

'  What  for  ?  ' 

*  I  brought  a  Testament :  I  should  like  to  read  a  bit 
of  it,'  he  said  shyly. 

A  struggle  of  some  kind  was  showing  in  SkeUy'a 
face.  At  last,  and  without  speaking,  he  turned  and 
led  the  way  back  to  the  common  grave. 

And  when  they  reached  it,  lo  !  there  upon  the  little 
white  coflB.n  reposed  a  beautiful  wreath  of  white  flowers. 

SkeUy  was  dumbfounded. 

*  Well !  I  'm  flummoxed,'  he  said,  and  took  off  his 
cap. 

'  Heaven  is  kinder  than  we  know,'  said  Barnacles ; 

*  the  wreath  lies  there  like  the  tears  of  the  angels.' 

Skelly  turned  aside,  plucked  a  grass,  and  began 
chewing  it.  Barnacles  was  fumbling  with  the  leaves 
of  the  book.     His  face  was  growing  very  red. 

*  I  cannot  find  a  suitable  passage,'  he  stammered. 

*  Tak  your  time,'  said  Skelly.  He  was  gazing 
reflectively  at  the  wreath. 

After  a  considerable  time  Barnacles  said,  *  This!  is 
what  I  have  been  looking  for,'  and  began  to  read — 

*  And  they  brought  young  children  to  Him  that  He 
should  touch  them,  and  His  disciples  rebuked  those 
that  brought  them.  But  when  Jesus  saw  it  He  was 
much  displeased,  and  said  unto  them,  Suffer  the  little 
children  to  com^  unto  me,  and  forbid  them  not ;  for 
of  such  is  the  Kingdom  of  God.     Verily  I  say  unto  you. 


BARNACLES  85 

Whosoever  shall  rwt  receive  the  Kingdom  of  God  as  a 
little  child,  he  shall  not  enter  therein.  And  He  took 
them  up  in  His  arms,  put  His  hands  upon  them,  and 
blessed  them.' 

Barnacles  closed  the  book,  and  gazing  steadfastly  up 
at  the  sky  said,  *  Lord  Jesus  Christ,  who  wast  bom  a 
child  here  and  ate  our  bread  and  salt  and  traversed 
our  nights,  and  lay  down  with  us  in  the  grave,  keep 
the  child  and  bless  the  mother.' 

SkeUy  gathered  a  handful  of  soil,  and  let  it  faU  on 
the  little  white  coffin,  careful  not  to  touch  the  wreath  ; 
and  when  he  emptied  his  hand  he  said  in  a  loud  grufE 
voice,  as  Barnacles'  words  died  away,  '  Amen.' 


XVII 

They  reached  the  back  streets  in  the  twilight — 
streets  full  of  sadness  and  nameless  sounds.  The  sight 
of  a  woman  swearing  at  a  child  left  Barnacles'  heart 
full  of  pain. 

'  If  the  child  were  to  die,'  he  said. 

*  Hach  !  '  answered  Skelly,  '  they  'd  hae  a  booze 
wi'  the  Insurance  money.' 

As  they  trudged  on  the  hard  grey  aspect  of  the  town 
vanished  in  the  gas-light,  and  night,  with  the  sorrows 
of  the  world  hidden  in  its  bosom,  descended  upon  men 
and  beast  as  the  pony  clattered  into  the  stable.  Night 
that  nurses  the  sorrows  of  the  earth  filled  the  stable. 
In  its  midst  the  pony  sniffed  at  its  feed,  took  a  sup  of 
water,  and  lay  down  with  a  weary  sigh.  Before 
morning  was  come  night  had  drawn  from  the  breast 
of  little  grey  grandmother  another  of  the  sorrows  of 


86  BARNACLES 

earth,   and  left  the   pony  quiet  and  healed   of  its 
smart. .  .  . 

Man,  it  may  be,  in  Castlehead  and  in  Cotton  Street 
hears  the  footsteps  of  his  fate  approach,  surrounded 
with  anxious  faces  and  upheld  by  an  affection  that 
would  trace  across  the  coming  night  a  path  towards 
a  diviuer  day  ;  but  the  inhabitants  of  little  white 
coffins — lovely  and  fragile  heads  budding  in  the  first 
ray  of  life — and  the  dwellers  in  draughty  stables,  know 
nothing  at  all  as  the  silent  night  draws  the  last  weary 
sigh  of  their  loneliness  into  her  bosom  and  gives  them 
rest.  ...  As  the  stars  began  to  set  the  pony  grew 
stiff  and  cold. 

XVIII 

Who  cares  for  a  fatherless  baby  born  in  shame,  and 
who  for  the  carcase  of  a  half -blind,  worn-out  hawker's 
pony  ?  As  for  a  dead  baby  it  costs  money  to  bury  it ; 
as  for  a  dead  pony  it  brings  money  to  the  pocket  of  its 
owner.  For  Skelly,  hardened  by  having  seen  many 
dead  men  and  many  dead  horses  of  war,  proposed  to 
sell  the  body  of  little  grandmother  to  a  bone  factory  in 
the  environs  of  the  town. 

This  was  intolerable  to  Barnacles. 

*  The  pony  helped  to  bury  the  baby  yesterday. 
Let  us  bury  the  pony  to-day.  She  has  been  a  faithful 
servant.' 

'  She  has,'  answered  Skelly ;  '  she  's  been  my  mate 
for  nine  years.' 

A  very  good  epitaph  that  would  have  been,  if 
ponies  received  epitaphs :  *  Mate  for  nine  years  of  a 
man  wounded  in  the  wars.'     So  the  pony  received 


BARNACLES  87 

interment  next  day  at  dawn.  As  Barnacles  went 
along  the  passage  then,  he  heard  subdued  sounds  of 
sobbmg  within  the  house  of  blind  Ned.  They  came 
from  the  mother  who  was  in  despair  of  being  able  to 
waken  her  son,  the  moulder.  If  he  was  late  he  would 
lose  his  job,  and  none  would  be  more  chagrined  than  he. 
Yet  he  was  so  sunk  in  weariness  that  he  would  not 
rouse.  Barnacles  listened,  put  up  his  hand  to  knock, 
hesitated,  and  went  on  his  way.  Day  had  not  yet 
broken.  He  looked  abroad  at  the  close-mouth  and 
said  aloud,  '  Is  there  an  hour  at  all  in  which  no  one 
weeps  ?  If  such  an  hour  once  every  day  were  only  given 

to  men ' 

Barnacles  and  Skelly,  the  one  puUing,  the  other 
pushing,  a  large  hand-barrow  loaned  by 

DAVID   BOWSKILL 
SLATER  AND    SWEEP 
BEST   PAEAJTESr   OIL 

as  a  wooden  board  in  his  window  showed,  passed 
through  the  Square. 

*  Hain  yoursel,  Barnacles,  we  hae  a  lang  wy  to  go,' 
SkeUy  was  crying  as  he  puffed  and  pushed  the  dead 
pony  covered  with  sacks  in  the  barrow.  The  pony  was 
also  bound  for  common  ground  beside  a  slag-heap 
alongside  the  railway  at  the  Arches  in  Elderslie  Parish. 
Skelly  kept  adjusting  the  sacks  which  the  jolting  of  the 
barrow  displaced  and  showed  the  pony  naked  in  the 
eye  of  day.  The  sacks  also  belonged  to  Mr.  Bowskill, 
and  for  ordinary  carried  soot  from  the  chimneys. 
Such  is  the  hereditary  charity  of  the  poor  by  which 
they  live. 

The  horns  of  the  engineering  shops  were  sounding  a 


88  BARNACLES 

harsh  requiem  as  they  dragged  theh*  burden  by  the 
West  End  Cross.  Innumerable  windows  of  the  vast 
red  structure  of  Coats's  Mill  looked  blankly  at  the 
little  procession  as  it  crept  by  in  the  silence  of  the 
dawn. 

'  It 's  like  a  thousand  eyes  upon  us,'  said  Barnacles, 
wiping  his  forehead  as  they  stopped  to  rest,  and 
nodding  towards  the  gigantic  structure. 

Skelly  sniffed. 

*  I  'm  smeUin'  the  bone  factory,'  he  said,  and  looking 
at  a  grey  leg  protruding  from  a  sack,  added,  '  I  'm 
gled  I  took  your  advice,  Barnacles.' 

Beyond  the  Arches  in  waste  ground  they  buried  grey 
grandmother.  It  was  an  unlovely  spot.  From  the 
grave  no  flowers  or  green  things  would  spring.  Cinders 
from  passing  trains  would  cover  the  place,  where  lay 
one  whose  life  had  of  late  been  mutely  passed  in  the 
fires  of  pain  and  weariness. 

A  passing  workman  thought  these  two  were  scav- 
engers raking  for  lost  treasure,  whereas  they  were 
burying  treasure. 

*  IVIany  a  man  got  a  worse  grave,'  said  Skelly  very 
gruffly  as  he  took  the  trams  of  the  barrow.  But 
be  gruff  as  you  like,  SkeUy,  the  heart  knoweth  its 
own  bitterness,  A  grey  familiar  presence  with  the 
precious  name  of  Maggie  is  gone  from  your  side 
for  ever.  .  .  . 

He  was  caught  red-handed.  The  waste  ground 
stood  on  the  left,  a  little  distance  off  the  main  road, 
and  another  road  flanking  this  waste  ground  joined  the 
main  road,  where  two  high  stone  walls — one  running 
along  the  side  of  each  road — ^met  at  right  angles.  Hector 
the  seaman  had  dodged  and  followed  the  barrow  some 


BARNACLES  89 

way  behind.  When  he  reached  this  comer  where  the 
two  walk  met,  he  keeked  round  to  take  observations. 
He  was  puzzled.  The  cortege  had  vanished  ofE  the 
main  road.  He  was  just  bringing  his  eye  round  to 
sweep  the  waste  ground  when  Barnacles  and  Skelly, 
their  work  completed,  came  down  the  side  road  to  the 
comer.  It  was  the  white  beard  waving  round  the 
corner  which  Skelly  first  saw.  It  seemed  familiar. 
Then  Skelly  looked  into  two  peering  red-lidded  eyes, 
and  taking  another  step  saw  the  rounded  form  crouch- 
ing back  in  consternation. 

*  Well,  I  'm  flummoxed,'  said  Skelly. 

The  breath  of  the  old  man  was  sobbing,  and  his  body 
shivering.  A  button  of  his  jacket  was  hanging  by  a 
single  thread.  He  tried  to  button  it.  It  kept  slipping 
out  of  his  fingers.  He  looked  more  lean  and  dry  than 
ever,  with  his  teeth  chattering  and  his  thin  knees 
shaking. 

All  at  once  Barnacles  cried  out,  *  I  am  so  sorry, 
Hector,  we  did  not  wait  for  you — I  told  him  last  night, 
Skelly — I  thought  he  would ' 

Barnacles  made  a  vague  gesture.  The  old  man 
threw  him  a  look  of  gratitude.  '  Dinna  wait  for  me, 
Skelly,'  he  quavered.  '  I  'm  no'  sae  blithe  on  my 
feet  as  I  used  to  be.' 

*  Hach,'  answered  SkeUy,  *  we  're  in  nae  hurry  ; 
come  along — ye  'd  have  been  faur  better  in  bed.* 

Hector  the  seaman  showed  his  relief.  '  Call  the 
watch,  Mr.  Mate,'  he  chirped  as  he  fell  into  step  ;  and 
being  a  water  man,  with  no  sense  of  horses,  *  we  'U  get 
another  powny  wi'  the  pension.' 

'  No,'  answered  SkeUy,  beginning  to  whistle,  '  ye  can 
buy  me  a  motor-caur.' 


90  BARNACLES 

The  old  man  ran  forward  to  Barnacles. 

*  Did  ye  hear  that  ?  he  's  wantin'  a  motor-caur  ; 
an'  me  with  my  pension — I  was  nearly  disgraced 
keekin'  round  the  corner — do  you  think  Skelly  is 
angry  ?  ' 

*  No,  Hector  ;  he  was  saying  when  we  buried  the 
pony,  "  It 's  a  pity  my  father  isn't  here."  ' 

*  Was  he  ?  was  he  ?  isn't  he  the  guid  son  ?  what  will 
he  dae  noo  wantin'  Maggie  ?  A  motor-caur 's  no' 
Maggie.  Maggie  was  his  wife — SkeUy's  he'rt  brak 
in  twa  when  he  cam  hame — God  be  thankit  I  hae 
my  pension  —  I  'm  pleased,  pleased  to  be  oot 
walkin'  wi'  you  an'  SkeUy.  I  'm  a  different  man.  I 
don't  feel  the  caul'.  Man  !  man !  I  was  nearly  affrontit 
keekin'  roond  the  comer  —  I  thocht  he  wad  be 
angry.' 

So  he  babbled  on  like  a  child,  trotting  by  Barnacles' 
side,  until  they  reached  Cotton  Street,  where  they 
found  the  other  child,  a  pitiful  figure,  barefoot,  and 
clad  only  in  a  shirt,  standing  on  the  floor  in  the  greatest 
consternation.  He  had  wakened  up  and  found  himself 
alone  in  the  glimmer  of  dawn.  His  cry  sounding 
through  the  house  aroused  blind  Ned,  who  was  sooth- 
ing him,  and  had  told  him  that  all  had  gone  to  bury 
the  pony.  The  boy's  face  was  pinched  with  the  cold  ; 
violently  shivering  he  kept  biting  the  neck  of  his  shirt. 
As  soon  as  they  entered  he  ran  to  his  father  with  his 
little  body  all  shaking. 

'  My  puir  wee  powny  ;  I  want  my  powny  back.' 
He  began  sobbing  uncontrollably.     He  was  finally 
comforted  by  Barnacles,  who  promised  to  take  him 
to  the  Gleniffer  Braes. 


BARNACLES  91 


XIX 


The  voyage  was  a  great  success.  Worship  was  in 
the  eyes  of  the  man,  wonder  in  the  face  of  the  child, 
as  the  friendly  land  flashed  around  them  in  the  flush 
of  day.  They  sat  high  up  on  the  Braes,  and  saw  spread- 
ing away  at  their  feet  a  land  of  corn,  barley,  wheat, 
turnips,  potatoes — ^a  vast  chequered  carpet  for  miles. 
It  was  all  fuU  of  nooks,  inlets,  nestling  farms,  head- 
lands of  trees,  puffs  of  steam  from  the  trains.  The 
solemn  trees  on  the  earth  and  the  clouds  in  the  heavens 
advancing  with  the  majesty  of  armies,  sailing  Kke 
navies,  and  melting  like  hoar  frost,  enchained  their 
spirits.    Profound  stillness  surrounded  them. 

'  We  're  awfy  high  up,'  whispered  wee  Kitchener. 

Barnacles  laughed. 

'  We  're  not  at  the  top  storey  yet,  son.* 

They  set  off  again.  Wee  Kitchener  dived  into  a  clump 
of  broom,  darted  out  beneath  a  giant  gean,  white  as  snow, 
and  again  plunged  into  a  verdurous  continent  of  gloom 
haunted  with  a  deHcious  loneliuess.  He  burst  out  once 
more  upon  a  green  brae  in  the  sunhght  like  a  ship  come 
to  haven  after  a  daring  voyage  across  an  unknown  sea. 

StiQ  they  ascended,  striking  up  through  the  pines 
and  firs  by  a  footpath  carpeted  with  the  soft  brown 
dust  and  needles  of  the  trees.  AU  at  once  they  burst 
upon  the  hill-top  in  the  midst  of  heather.  The 
spacious  Clyde  valley  lay  beneath  them — smoking 
towns  and  roUing  plains.  Wee  Kitchener  gazed  in 
awe  upon  this  New  World.  His  bewildered  eye  roved 
over  clumps  of  woods,  burns,  fields,  roofs,  chimney- 
stalks,  and  spires.     An  imperial  light  turned  far-off 


92  BARNACLES 

windows  to  molten  gold.  Wee  Kitchener's  eyes  rested 
on  the  blue  hills  beyond  the  Clyde  and  three  great 
mountams,  of  which  Ben  Lomond  is  chief. 

*  It 's  an  awfy  big  place  this,'  he  whispered. 
Down  beneath  beside  the  flame  of  the  whin  his  spirits 

had  trooped  and  shouted.  Now  upon  the  heather  the 
sombre  moor  quieted  him,  the  vast  spaces  awed  him, 
and  he  drew  nearer  to  Barnacles.  And  Barnacles, 
divining  his  vague  dread,  began  to  tell  him  that  beyond 
these  hills  were  harbours  and  ships  and  sands  of  gold. 
There  were  even  houses  standing  on  the  very  sea. 

'  Wet  hooses  ? '  asked  wee  Kitchener. 

Yes,  said  Barnacles,  and  across  their  windows  sea- 
birds  passed,  and  large  fish  could  be  seen  swimming  in 
the  clear  water.  And  on  the  sea  white  sails,  large  as  a 
house,  stood  up  in  the  great  ships  sparkling  on  frosty 
mornings  ;  the  ships  aU  in  a  glitter  going  out  from  the 
harbours,  with  boys  and  men  singing  round  the  anchor- 
chains  ;  and  other  ships  coming  in  with  parrots  swing- 
ing in  big  cages,  and  monkeys  scampering  up  the 
rigging.  Yes  !  and  pirates,  too,  beyond  where  the 
sun  went  into  the  ocean  in  the  home  of  the  big  winds. 
What  place  did  the  sun  do  that  in  ?  Far,  far  away, 
where  it  was  so  warm  that  the  top  waves  of  the  sea 
dried  off,  and  it  was  always  calm  like  a  sheet  of  glass. 
And  the  sun  was  fond  of  the  sea  at  night,  when  it  was 
thirsty  after  its  long  journey  over  the  sky,  and  so  went 
down  into  the  great  water. 

*  Does  it  gae  doon  like  the  sweep's  brush  in  the 
chimney  ?  ' 

*  The  very  same.  Kitchener  ;  deep,  deep  down.' 

*  Ay  !  ay  !  but  it  '11  no'  get  dirty  in  the  water,'  he 
cried  in  a  triumphant  voice  of  discovery. 


BARNACLES  98 

*  Neither  it  will,'  said  Barnacles,  accepting  the  dis- 
covery with  admiration ;  '  that 's  why  it  comes  up 
clean  every  morning,  and  sometimes  very  red,  because 
it  has  slept  in.  Kitchener,  and  is  in  a  terrible  hurry.' 

'  Ay,'  he  answered,  his  pug  nose  tilted  up  as  he 
scanned  the  heavens  for  a  red  sun.  The  world  across 
the  hiUs  had  opened  magic  and  wonders — a  sea  of 
glass  upon  which  sat  great  ships  crowded  with  monkeys, 
and  out  of  which  a  wet  red  sun  climbed  in  the  morning. 

'  I  like  this  better  nor  the  school,'  he  said  with 
decision. 

'  Poor  little  bird,'  thought  Barnacles,  '  stiU  thinking 
of  your  cage.'  'Never  mind  the  school.  Kitchener,' 
he  said  aloud,  '  this  is  a  big  school  you  're  in  to-day  ; 
no  slates  and  maps  and  blackboards.  Come,  and  we  'U 
explore  the  school  and  see  what 's  in  it.' 

They  descended  by  the  path  through  the  wood,  and 
in  one  of  the  bushes  came  on  a  blackbird's  nest. 
Barnacles  lifted  up  Kitchener  who  peered  in. 

'  Oh  !   crickey  !  there  's  fower  wee  blue  eggs.' 

But  Barnacles  would  not  allow  him  to  touch  them. 

'  WuU  I  no'  ?  '  he  pleaded. 

*  No,  Kitchener.  You  know  the  pony  is  dead  ;  and 
in  the  eggs  are  four  wee  birds,  and  if  you  touched  them 
they  might  die  too,  like  the  pony.' 

'  I  '11  no'  touch  them  then '  —  he  drew  a  deep 
breath — '  are  they  no'  awfu'  bonnie  ?  ' 

*  Yes,'  answered  Barnacles,  '  they  are  bits  of  the  blue 
sky.' 

*  Hoo  did  they  manage  to  come  doon  ?  * 

*  The  angels  brought  them.' 

*  Wull  they  be  blue  birds  ?  ' 

*  No,  black.' 


94  BARNACLES 

*  Oot  o'  blue  eggs  ? ' — incredulously. 

*  Yes,'  answered  Barnacles  ;  '  if  all  eggs  were  black, 
Kitchener,  one  bird  wouldn't  know  from  another  which 
eggs  were  hers.' 

*  Ay,'  he  pondered  a  moment, '  are  they  a'  blue  eggs  ? ' 

*  No,  Kitchener,  or  the  birds  wouldn't  know  them 
either.' 

*  An  whit  are  they  ?  ' 

'  Some  are  yellow  ;  some  brown ' 

Wee  Kitchener  interrupted,  '  Are  they  bits  o'  sky  as 
weel  ? ' 

'  Of  course.' 

*  I  never  sawayella  sky  in  a'  my  natural ;  whaur  is 't  ? ' 
Again  the  wee  snub  nose  was  tilted  upwards. 

*  It 's  far  away,'  said  Barnacles  gravely,  '  where  the 
ships  with  the  parrots  go.' 

Wee  Kitchener  remained  silent.  Barnacles  was 
wondering  if  he  was  convinced. 

*  Dae  the  nests  fa'  oot  o'  the  sky  as  weel  ?  ' 
'  Oh  no  !   the  birds  build  them.' 

'  Ay,'  eagerly,  '  what  wi'  ?  ' 

*  Bits  of  grass,  hay,  moss,  wool,  and  horses'  hair, 
Kitchener ;  the  sheep  and  the  horses  help  the  wee 
birds.' 

*  That 's  good  o'  them,'  answered  Wee  Kitchener. 

*  Isn't  it,'  said  Barnacles,  his  face  suddenly  glowing 
at  the  sympathy  in  the  boy's  heart,  *  isn't  it  just  ?  and 
the  wee  birds  with  the  nests  in  the  bushes  getting  help 
from  the  sheep  and  the  horses  tell  us  of  the  Good  One 
up  in  the  sky.  Kitchener,  who  watches  over  all.  You  're 
going  to  get  your  boots,  and  I  'm  going  to  get  a  job,' 
his  voice  rang  with  conviction. 

It  was  perhaps  this  thought  of  Providence  which 


BARNACLES  95 

caused  Barnacles  to  remember  the  food  which  he  had 
carried  for  them  both  in  his  pocket.  It  was  not 
a  sumptuous  repast — a  bottle  of  milk,  bread,  cheese,  a 
few  biscuits,  two  hard-boiled  eggs,  part  of  a  black 
pudding  ;  but  there  upon  the  grass  above  the  burn  it 
was  eaten  with  a  relish.  A  sheep  showed  an  unwinking 
solemn  face  over  a  low  dry-stone  dike  as  they  ate. 
Its  black  mask  caught  wee  Kitchener's  eye. 

*  Dae  sheep  have  nests  ?  '  he  asked. 
'  Of  course.  Kitchener.' 

'  What  kin'  o'  eggs  have  they  ?  ' 

'  It 's  not  eggs,  it 's  fiddles,'  answered  Barnacles. 

*  Show  me  ane  o'  their  nests  wi'  fiddles,'  cried  wee 
Kitchener  gleefuUy. 

*  I  can't,  I  herrit  it,  and  the  fiddle  is  in  the  house.' 

'  I  wish  I  could  hae  a  sheep's  nest,'  sighed  the  boy. 
'  Why,  Kitchener  ?  ' 

*  I  want  to  get  a  fiddle  an'  play  like  you.' 

'  So  you  shall,  so  you  shaU,  Kitchener  ;  when  I  get 
work  I  'U  buy  a  fiddle  for  you.' 

*  I  'U  be  very  pleased,'  answered  wee  Kitchener. 
When  they  had  finished  their  meal  and  stood  up, 

Barnacles  said,  '  We  had  a  fine  time  here,  Kitchener, 
hadn't  we  ? ' 
'  Ay,  Barnacles.' 

*  WeU,  Kitchener,  never  be  mean ;  always  give  if  you 
can.'  He  handed  the  boy  a  piece  of  bread,  '  Break  it 
up,  Kitchener,  and  scatter  the  crumbs  on  the  grass. 
The  birds  that  have  the  nest  wiU  get  their  supper.' 

With  loving  eyes  Barnacles  watched  the  boy  furnish- 
ing a  table  for  the  birds. 

'  CJome  away  now,'  he  said,  '  down  to  the  bum.' 
This  stream  flowed  down  the  valley.    It  laughed 


96  BARNACLES 

in  the  shallows  among  the  pebbles  and  was  full  of 
dancing  dimples. 

'  Look  !  look  !  '  cried  Kitchener, '  I  saw  a  wee  fush.' 

Troutlings  whisked  among  the  stones.  Wee  Kitchener 
became  excited  and  chased  them  with  pebbles,  dart- 
ing about  the  bank  as  lively  himself  as  the  brown 
fish. 

Barnacles,  all  this  time,  was  whittling  little  dug-outs 
from  a  branch.  One  he  gave  to  wee  Kitchener  and 
one  he  retained. 

'  Now,  Kitchener,  this  is  two  boats  and  we  '11  have  a 
race.' 

*  Richt,'  and  wee  Kitchener  spat  on  his  palms. 

*  Not  you  and  me  ;  our  boats,  Kitchener.' 
He  handed  the  boy  a  switch. 

*  This  is  to  push  off  your  boat  if  she  catches  on  the 
bank  or  sticks  at  a  stone.' 

Barnacles  forded  the  bum. 

'  Now  place  your  boat  in  the  water.  Kitchener,  and 
I  '11  put  in  mine.'  The  boats  were  off.  They  danced 
down  the  bank  following  them,  and  Kitchener  urged 
his  on  with  all  the  cries  of  Cotton  Street  and  the  school. 
A  sudden  swirl  spun  the  boat  of  Barnacles  ahead. 

'  No  !  no  !  Kitchener,  fair  play  ;  you  mustn't  touch 
yours  with  the  switch  unless  she  sticks,'  yeUed  Bar- 
nacles. Wee  Kitchener  was  leaping  into  the  air  and 
throwing  out  his  arms,  crying,  *  Gae  on,  gae  on.'  Each 
was  doubled  up  again,  watching  the  progress  of  the 
boats  ;  now  running  forward,  now  halting,  as  the  boats 
were  whirled  in  the  middle  of  the  current  or  staggered 
into  stUl  bays.  '  Gae  on,  gae  on,'  Kitchener  was 
shouting,  when  suddenly  a  rabbit  darted  across  his 
path.    He  leapt  into  the  air  breathless,  and  leaving 


BARNACLES  97 

the  race  pursued  bunny's  tail  up  the  brae  till  the  bob- 
bing fur  vanished  in  the  wood.  When  he  turned  again 
to  the  race  he  saw  Barnacles  rising  from  the  ground 
with  rueful  face.  With  aU  his  eyes  bent  upon  his  tiny 
ship,  Barnacles  had  plunged  into  a  dike  which  in  a  mad 
caper  of  stone  had  also  ran  down  to  the  blandishment 
of  the  burn.  By  this  time  the  twin  craft  had  vanished 
down  the  joUy  stream.     Barnacles  recrossed. 

'  You  've  won,  Kitchener,'  he  said. 

Kitchener  was  overjoyed  ;  his  eyes  grew  bright  as 
the  burn.  '  Hae  I  ?  hae  I  ?  I  saw  a  rabbit  scootin'  up 
the  brae  an'  I  didna  see  the  en'.' 

*  You  have,  Kitchener  ;  you  get  the  prize.' 
'  What  prize  ?  ' 

'  Why,  didn't  I  tell  you  ? '  said  Barnacles,  sitting  down 
and  rubbing  his  knee :  *  a  pair  of  boots  and  a  knife, 
when  I  get  work.' 

'  Never  heed  the  boots  ;  I  'U  just  tak  the  knife,'  and 
wee  Kitchener  sat  down  beside  him. 

'  Is  it  wi'  work  you  get  boots  ?  '  he  asked. 

'  Yes,  Kitchener.' 

*  No'  wi'  pownies  ?  ' 
'  Sometimes.' 

'  An'  whaur  wull  ye  get  work  ?  ' 

Then  Barnacles  remembered  the  banker  of  Castle- 
head.  '  I  think  we  shall  soon  go,'  he  said ;  '  I  am  going 
to  see  about  work  to-night.' 

But  though  the  day  was  waning  over  the  Delect- 
able Land  they  were  loath  to  go.  All  was  silent 
around  with  the  brooding  peace  of  the  close  of  day. 
An  early  bee  twanged  past  accentuating  the  stillness. 
The  grave  beauty  of  the  twilight ;  the  witchery  and 
depth  of  the  middle  distance  ;    the  clear  chant  of  a 

G 


98  BARNACLES 

single  blackbird — he  had  perhaps  found  the  crumbs — 
the  fluttering  of  a  timid  wind  in  the  leaves  ;  the  blue- 
black  shadows  which  are  the  feet  of  Night ;  and  the 
sighing  of  the  lonely  bum  water  were  the  voice  of  the 
brooding  spirit  of  Dusk  calling  to  the  soul  of  Barnacles. 
He  listened  to  the  pale  water  as  if  it  were  not  only 
living  but  breathing. 

*  Is  the  water  laughing  or  crying  ?  '  he  asked. 
'  Water  canna  greet,'  answered  wee  Kitchener. 
Barnacles   had   risen.     The   boy   followed,   looking 

curiously  at  the  bum. 

'  See  the  big  an'  the  wee  shadows  in  the  water, 'he  said, 
slightly  shivering.  In  speaking  of  the  shadows  he  had 
named  a  sudden  fear  which  had  assailed  him,  whispering 
it  to  gather  courage  from  the  presence  of  a  protector. 

Barnacles  gave  him  his  hand. 

*  Come,  Kitchener,  let  us  cross  the  bum  and  tramp 
down  the  shadows.' 

The  boy  went  fearlessly. 

After  they  had  crossed  Barnacles  sighed. 

*  Ay,  Kitchener  ;  when  we  get  older  the  shadows 
become  real.'  He  looked  down  at  the  child's  hand 
reposing  confidently  in  his.  Why  am  I  not  reassured 
and  tramp  down  the  shadows,  who  can  bestow  such 
assurance  on  this  child  ?  he  thought.  He  gets  his  trust 
because  his  hand  is  in  mine.  Barnacles  looked  up. 
*  The  Hand  that  made  the  stars  is  stretched  out  to  me,' 
he  whispered. 

*  Eh  ?  '  said  wee  Kitchener. 

*  I  am  very  confident,'  answered  Barnacles,  '  that  1 
am  going  to  get  work.' 

Through  the  deepening  shadows  they  went  on  hand 
in  hand  in  silence. 


BARNACLES  99 


XX 

Wee  Kitchener  burst  into  the  house.  *  Faither,  my 
boat  won  the  race  ! ' 

'  What  race,  son  ?  ' 

'  In  the  burn  ;  in  the  bum  ;  an'  I  'm  to  get  a  pair 
o'  buits.' 

'  Whaur  frae,  Kitchener  ?   the  powny  's  deid.' 

Kitchener's  face  fell.  The  comers  of  his  mouth 
began  to  twitch. 

'  I  don't  ken ' — suddenly  a  transfiguring  light  shone 
on  his  face — '  Barnacles  telt  me.' 

The  radiance  of  his  face  convinced  Skelly. 

*  The  whipper-in  was  here  for  you,  Kitchener,'  piped 
Hector  the  seaman  ;  *  I  telt  him  we  made  a  mistake  in 
oor  dead  reckoning,  an'  thocht  this  was  Setterday. 
Ye  'd  better  look  out  for  squalls  on  Monday.' 

'  Don't  you  fear,'  said  Barnacles,  '  I  '11  go  with  you 
to  the  school.' 

'  Are  you  gaun  to  Castleheid  the  nicht  ?  '  asked 
Skelly.     He  handed  Barnacles  the  visiting  card. 

'  Yes  ;  perhaps  I  '11  get  a  job  for  you,  Skelly.' 

'  I  've  got  ane,'  answered  the  fish-hawker. 

Barnacles'  face  lit  up. 

'  I  'm  awfully  glad  ;   what  is  it  ?  ' 

'  Blin'  Ned's  mither  is  deid,  an'  Sanny  his  brother 
is  gein'  up  his  job  in  the  mouldin'  shop.' 

This  was  one  of  those  countless  obscure  tragedies  of 
the  poor.  It  was  necessary  for  '  blin'  Ned's '  brother 
Sanny  to  be  in  the  moulding  shop  at  five  in  the  morning 
and  have  the  fires  cleaned  out  and  going  before  the 


100  BARNACLES 

moulders  arrived  at  six.  He  had  to  remain  behind 
in  the  evening  when  the  men  were  finished,  and  did  not 
reach  home  till  almost  seven  o'clock,  to  eat  his  supper 
and  tumble  into  bed  into  a  trance.  The  anxiety  of  his 
mother's  life  was  to  get  him  up  in  the  morning,  but  he 
was  so  fagged  that  he  would  moan  for  another  quarter 
of  an  hour  :  and  every  morning  there  was  a  scene 
between  mother  and  son.  She  herself  was  forced  to  be 
up  at  half -past  four  ;  and  after  her  son  had  his  supper 
she  was  the  last  to  go  to  bed  ;  but  her  brief  rest  was 
broken  with  fears  that  she  would  sleep  beyond  half- 
past  four.  The  lad  received  eighteen  shillings  a  week. 
This  had  gone  on  for  three  years.  He  had  wanted  to 
give  up  such  a  life  and  serve  his  apprenticeship  as  an 
engiueer,  but  that  meant  only  five  shillings  a  week  to 
begin  with,  while  the  eighteen  shillings  were  absolutely 
necessary.  As  year  succeeded  year  this  struggle  with 
privation,  fatigue,  and  want  of  sleep  went  on. 

But  one  morning  the  envious  horns  and  whistles 
screaming  over  Paisley  called  up  none  of  SkeUy's 
neighbours.  About  eleven  o'clock  the  son  stretched 
himself  and  yawned.  He  was  astonished  at  the  full 
sun  striking  in  his  eyes  ;  but  a  delicious  drowsiness 
possessed  him  ;  his  body  was  bathed  in  soft  warmth, 
and  he  languidly  closed  his  eyes. 

A  second  time  he  awoke,  hearing  a  tap-tapping  of  a 
stick  on  the  floor.  AU  at  once  he  was  aware  of  a 
silence  in  the  house.  He  could  hear  the  clock  ticking 
in  the  kitchen. 

*  Ned,'  he  shouted,  *  is  that  you  ?  ' 

The  blind  man's  stick  tapped  into  the  room. 

*  Are  ye  here,  Sanny  ?  ' 

*  Ay,  what  time  is  't  ?  ' 


BARNACLES  101 

*  It 's  the  dinner  oor.'  Ned  had  come  ofE  his  ahns- 
beat. 

*  Whaur  's  your  mither  ?  '  asked  the  brother  who 
was  in  bed.  Immediately  he  had  asked  the  question 
a  sudden  fear  seized  him,  and  he  jumped  from  bed  and 
ran  into  the  kitchen.  His  mother  was  in  bed,  lying  on 
her  back,  her  mouth  open,  her  eyes  fixed  upwards. 
One  hand  lay  on  the  bed-clothes. 

He  knew  she  was  dead.  Something  was  rising  up  in 
his  throat — a  choking.  Noiselessly  he  approached  her. 
Her  face  was  puffy,  her  Ups  tinged  with  blue.  '  She  's 
dead,  dead,'  something  inside  him  was  saying  ;  '  she  'U 
speak  to  me  no  more ;  she 's  lost  to  me ! '  He  wanted  to 
burst  into  tears  but  could  not  cry.  He  was  dimly 
conscious  in  the  terrible  silence  of  the  blind  man  groping 
about. 

Suddenly  the  blind  man  spoke. 

*  Sanny  !   whit 's  wrang  ? ' 

Then  something  within  his  breast  burst  and  gushed 
out  in  tears. 

'  Ned,  Ned  !  oor  mither's  gone.' 

*  Ay,'  answered  the  blind  man,  his  face  going  white, 
*  I  smelt  something  ;  daith  's  a  thing  the  blin'  can  see.' 
He  began  groping  towards  the  bed.  .  .  . 

In  this  way  Skelly  got  a  job  at  eighteen  shillings  a 
week  by  working  at  furnaces  from  five  in  the  morning 
till  seven  in  the  evening.  Sanny,  emancipated  by 
death,  was  going  to  serve  his  apprenticeship  as  an 
iron-turner. 

When  Skelly  informed  Barnacles,  Hector  the  seaman 
arose  from  before  the  fire. 

'  Then  ye  '11  no'  be  thinkin'  o'  a  powny  ony  mair  ? ' 
he  said. 


102  BARNACLES 

*  Powny,  faither  ;  whaur  '11  I  get  it  ?  Ye  micht  as 
weel  say  a  Derby  horse  an'  be  done  wi't.' 

'  Ye  wad  get  it  wi'  my  pension,  I  'm  thinkin'.* 

Skelly  winked  at  Barnacles. 

'  No,  faither,  I  'm  no'  thinkin'  o'  a  powny  noo.' 

The  old  man  took  a  tmn  up  and  down  the  floor. 
His  thin  white  hair  was  ruffled ;  there  was  a  pink  flush 
on  his  cheek-bones  ;  his  eyes  were  sparkling. 

'  Then  I  'U  get  my  pilot  reefer  jaicket,'  he  said  in  a 
loud  excited  voice. 

Again  he  began  walking  the  floor. 

'  What 's  come  ower  ye,  faither  ? '  Skelly  asked  in 
amazement. 

'  Would  you  like  a  pilot  jacket  ?  '  Barnacles  asked 
soothingly. 

*  Wad  I  like  it,'  he  burst  out  with  passion,  '  wad  I 
no' !  Hae  I  no'  been  thinkin'  o't  thae  five  years  ;  a 
pilot  reefer  jaicket  wi'  a  velvet  collar  an'  a  black  silk 
muffler  ? ' 

'  Well,  I  'm  flummoxed,'  and  Skelly  burst  out  laughing. 
The  old  man  looked  with  fright  at  his  laughing  son. 

*  I  am  ashamed  to  say  it,'  he  said  in  a  humble  voice. 
*  I  am  ashamed,  Skelly  ;  but  I  canna  bear  it  ony  langer ; 
I  hae  my  pension,  an'  ye  're  no  needin'  a  powny.' 

*  It 's  all  right.  Hector,'  came  the  cheery  voice  of 
Barnacles,  '  you  'U  get  your  pilot  jacket,  with  brass 
buttons  on  it,  if  you  like.' 

'  No,  no,'  Hector  the  seaman  began,  wringing  his 
hands,  '  I  never  thocht  o'  brass  buttons  a'  thae  five 
year.'  .  .  . 

About  an  hour  later  Barnacles  was  on  his  way  to  visit 
Mr.  Gilfillan  in  Castlehead.  With  invincible  faith  in 
human  nature  he  carried  a  note  in  his  pocket. 


BARNACLES  103 

*  A  pair  of  boots,  a  pilot  reefer  jacket  and  black  silk 
muffler,'  and  in  some  vague  way  he  hoped  to  carry 
back  these  treasures  from  Castlehead ;  and  the 
greatest  of  these  was  boots  for  a  bare-footed  child. 
Let  cannon  roar,  and  philosophers  talk,  the  world 
has  never  yet  heard  a  sound  that  will  draw,  subdue, 
and  win  the  heart  of  a  man  like  the  voice  of  a  child. 
It  is  not  altogether  of  this  earth,  such  a  voice.  So 
thought  Barnacles  as  he  came  near  the  house  of  Mr. 
Nicol  GilfiUan,  in  whose  drawing-room  sat  Mrs. 
Normanshire  listening  to  the  recital  of  the  episode  of 
a  man,  a  sheep,  and  a  violin. 

Nothing  on  earth  like  a  child  to  win  the  heart  of  a  man. 

He  stiU  felt  the  boy's  hand  in  his  own.  He  had  a 
naive  expectation  of  the  world  opening  its  heart  to  a 
waif  in  Cotton  Street,  and  a  joyful  emotion  that  he 
was  about  to  be  a  voice  for  those  who  live  mutely  in 
dark  comers,  who  wander  about  the  streets  till  the 
night  comes,  or  stand  begging  on  the  bridges  and  at 
the  comers  ;  who  cry  quietly  behind  their  doors  when 
the  windows  are  dark  and  make  no  other  sound  ;  who 
receive  help  only  from  sweeps  and  coffin-makers. 
They  did  not  know  anything  except  what  they  saw  in 
their  own  streets — ^nothing  of  other  countries  they  knew, 
or  of  olden  times,  and  how  Christ  died  to  save  us  all. 
They  were  blind,  and  weary  with  toil,  and  shivering  in 
their  old  age.  '  Heaven  will  be  kind  to  us  yet,'  he 
cried  in  a  fervent  voice,  as  he  went  up  the  garden  path 
to  the  house  of  the  wealthy  banker,  whose  windows 
were  fuU  of  lights.  His  face  was  glowing  ;  he  was 
quivering  with  emotion. 


BOOK  II 


Mrs.  Normanshire's  mother  was  one  of  two  daughters 
of  Mr.  Edwin  Sangster,  a  wealthy  Glasgow  merchant, 
whose  firm  had  a  lucrative  connection  with  South 
America.  She  had  received  her  musical  education 
from  Dr.  Boyd  Crawford,  organist  of  a  United  Free 
Church  in  the  city,  of  which  her  parents  were  members  ; 
and  in  the  course  of  time  Dr.  Crawford  asked  permis- 
sion of  Mr.  Sangster  to  marry  his  daughter.  This  was 
peremptorily  refused.  The  following  week  Margaret 
Sangster,  who  had  been  out  for  the  evening,  returned 
home,  and  without  taking  off  hat  or  gloves  walked 
right  up  to  her  father  and  said  : 

*  I  was  married  this  evening.' 

Mr.  Sangster  put  down  his  evening  paper  and  rose 
with  ominous  deliberation. 

*  Your  place  is  with  your  husband.     Go  to  him.' 

'  We  have  no  house,'  she  said,  and  unflinchingly  met 
his  eyes. 

Mrs.  Sangster  was  clinging  to  her  husband's  arm, 
crying,  '  Edwin  !   Edwin  !   are  you  daft  ?  ' 

He  shook  off  his  wife's  hands. 

'  This  is  her  home  no  longer ' ;  he  pointed  to  the  door, 
sat  down,  picked  up  the  Glasgow  News,  and  over  its 
edge  watched  his  daughter  leave  the  room. 

It  was  late.     The  rain  was  blattering  on  the  windows. 

The  whole  church  knew  the  story.     Mr.  Sangster, 

107 


108  BARNACLES 

though  a  member  of  the  ELirk  Session,  made  no  attempt, 
in  spite  of  his  influence,  to  have  the  organist  dismissed  ; 
and  no  one  had  the  temerity  even  to  name  Dr.  Boyd  in 
his  presence.  Nor  after  a  week's  pleading  had  his  own 
wife.  Only  she  visited  the  couple  secretly  in  their 
home  at  GamethiU,  carrying  there  delicacies,  clothes, 
money — especially  after  a  child  was  bom. 

Mr.  Sangster  was  present  in  the  church  when  the 
child  was  baptized,  and  named  after  his  own  wife, 
Martha.  When  the  baptismal  ceremony  was  over,  with 
the  words  intoned  by  the  choir  yet  echoing  in  the 
church, '  The  Lord  bless  thee  and  keep  thee ;  the  Lord 
make  His  face  to  shine  upon  thee  and  be  gracious  unto 
thee,' — he  went  round  with  one  of  the  collection-bags 
as  he  had  done  for  years,  with  his  face  like  a  rock. 

Soon  after  his  wife  fell  into  a  nervous  decline,  and 
having  scarcely  spoken  for  six  weeks,  passed  from 
dumbness  into  death.  As  soon  as  she  was  dead  Dr. 
Boyd  and  his  wife  removed  to  Edinburgh,  and  Mr. 
Sangster  was  left  alone,  for  his  younger  daughter 
had  married  a  coalowner — alone  in  an  avenging 
solitude. 

On  the  first  Sunday  on  which  the  new  organist 
played  Mr.  Sangster  was  in  his  place  ;  but  after  that 
day  he  never  returned  to  the  church. 

Two  years  afterwards,  on  a  winter  day  when  the 
church  beUs  were  ringing  and  snow  was  thickening  in 
the  sky,  he  lay  dying.  As  the  evening  drew  in  the 
snow  turned  to  sleet  and  at  last  to  rain. 

He  made  signs,  pointing  to  the  window,  but  neither 
the  nurse  nor  his  younger  daughter  could  understand 
what  he  wanted.  They  heard  a  single  whispered  word, 
•  Ram.' 


BARNACLES  109 

A  little  later,  all  lonely,  and  dumb  as  had  been  his 
wife,  he  too  met  death,  hearing  the  rain  blattering  on 
the  window. 

The  woman  who  washed  the  body  found  hanging 
round  his  neck  a  locket  containing  a  strand  of  hair. 
By  directions  in  the  wiU,  the  body  was  put  in  a  black 
coffin  and  buried  in  Hawkhead  Cemetery,  near  Paisley, 
where  lay  the  dust  of  his  fathers. 


n 

The  will  was  read  to  the  daughters  who  came,  each 
accompanied  by  her  husband,  to  the  funeral.  The  coal 
merchant  stood  distantly,  looking  through  gold  spec- 
tacles with  insolent  condescension  at  Dr.  Crawford, 
whom  he  always  thought  was  an  adventurer. 

The  church  of  which  Mr.  Sangster  was  a  member 
received  a  benefaction  to  supplement  the  salary  of  the 
organist ;  to  Alice  the  younger  daughter  £20,  in  order 
to  buy  a  mourning  ring  ;  the  residue  of  the  estate  was 
bequeathed  '  to  my  granddaughter  Martha  Crawford, 
daughter  of  Dr.  Boyd  Crawford,  to  be  inherited  by 
her  when  she  attains  the  age  of  twenty- three.'  Until 
then  her  parents  were  to  act  as  trustees  on  her 
behalf. 

*  It 's  absurd,  indecent ;  my  father  couldn't  have 
been  in  his  right  mind.  I  'U  dispute  the  will,'  stormed 
the  coalowner's  wife. 

*  As  you  choose,'  said  the  lawyer. 
She  wheeled  on  her  sister. 

*  It  paid  you  to  quarrel  with  father.' 
Mrs.  Crawford  burst  into  tears. 


110  BARNACLES 

After  the  coal  merchant  had  gone  off,  dumbfounded, 
along  with  his  wife,  the  lawyer  explained  their  legal 
position  to  Dr.  Crawford  and  his  wife. 

'  Can  we  live  here  ? '  she  asked,  gazing  around  with 
the  hunger  of  a  returned  exUe. 

*  Certainly,  certainly.' 

She  went  at  once  to  her  mother's  room.  On  the 
threshold  she  stood,  her  hands  at  her  breast,  gazing  at 
that  sacred  spot  which  she  had  not  seen  for  years. 
Her  eyes  slowly  filled  with  tears,  as  she  thought 
of  her  who  had  wept  every  time  the  terrible  clock 
warned  her  that  she  must  finish  her  visit  in  the  home 
at  GamethiU.  Her  heart  was  bursting  with  the  grief 
of  years  of  separation  and  with  the  anguish  of  being  in 
that  room  now — ^alone.  Every  object  was  pressed  to 
her  lips,  as,  with  a  soul  thirsting  for  memorials  of  her 
dead  mother,  she  ransacked  the  drawers. 

She  came  on  a  parcel  wrapped  in  brown  paper.  It 
was  a  bundle  of  her  own  letters,  written  to  her  mother 
when  illness  had  made  an  end  of  the  maternal  visits  to 
GamethiU.  At  first  she  thought  the  parcel  had  been 
made  up  by  her  mother,  with,  God  only  knows,  what 
trembling  and  sighs  and  tears  ;  but  when  she  drew  off 
the  wrapping,  there  on  the  top  was  a  half  sheet  of  note- 
paper,  on  which  she  read  those  words  written  in  the 
firm  handwriting  of  her  father  : 

'  I  have  read  those  letters  ;  I  ask  your  forgiveness, 
my  daughter.' 

He  knew  aU — that  her  mother  had  visited  her  ;  that 
she  and  her  husband  had  refused  to  leave  Glasgow  so 
long  as  their  mother  was  alive.  His  pride  was  broken  ; 
his  heart  too. 

*  0  daddy  !  daddy  !  daddy  !  !  !  '  she  moaned,  and 


BARNACLES  111 

sank  on  her  knees,  with  the  half  sheet  of  note-paper 
over  her  eyes. 

Do  the  spirits  of  the  dead  see  and  hear  us  mortals  ?  If 
so,  that  would  be  a  moment  of  mingled  agony  and  bliss 
for  Edwin  Sangster. 

in 

Martha  had  gone  to  Germany  for  two  successive 
winters,  in  order  to  complete  a  musical  education 
begun  by  her  father  ;  and  when  she  returned  from  her 
final  session  at  Berlin,  she  found  her  father  a  liberal 
supporter  of  the  Glasgow  Choral  and  Orchestral  Union, 
whose  members  were  the  chief  visitors  at  his  house. 
Among  them  was  a  young  man,  Patrick  Normanshire, 
tall,  delicately  built,  with  a  pale  clean-shaven  face, 
dark  lustrous  eyes,  and  thick  black  hair.  He  was  next 
in  place  to  the  cashier  in  a  large  commercial  firm  in  the 
city — a  post  to  which  he  had  been  promoted  through 
the  influence  of  Dr.  Crawford,  who  held  in  this  firm 
certain  '  interests '  which  had  been  bequeathed  by 
Mr.  Sangster  to  his  granddaughter. 

Martha,  now  a  taU,  beautiful  girl  of  eighteen,  was  not 
long  at  home  before  she  entered  a  new  world  the 
beat  of  whose  heart  was  centred  in  a  being  with  a  pale 
face  and  eyes  of  great  lustre.  Sometimes  she  feared 
this  face  with  a  fear  which  gave  her  a  strange  wild  joy. 
There  was  not  a  night  that  she  did  not  see  it  when  her 
head  was  laid  on  the  pUlow.  She  even  hovered  over  his 
signature  on  pieces  of  music.  Never  once  did  a  nearer 
realisation  of  her  dreams  occupy  her  mind.  So  that 
such  a  realisation  when  it  came  took  her  unawares  as 
by  an  onset. 


112  BARNACLES 

They  were  returning  in  a  taxi-cab  from  one  of 
the  Choral  Union  concerts  at  which  he  had  been 
singing,  when,  before  she  was  conscious  of  it,  her  hand 
was  shut  in  a  large  warm  clasp.  She  struggled,  but 
with  no  desire  to  be  free.  She  scarcely  knew  what  she 
was  saying.  '  Don't,  Patrick  ;  you  mustn't.'  The 
eager  flame  of  the  pale  face  was  beside  her  own  ;  wave 
upon  wave  of  delicious  sweetness  was  thrilling  through 
her ;  she  closed  her  eyes,  feeling  on  the  verge  of  a 
delicious  swoon,  as  she  eagerly  drank  in  his  words,  *  My 
darling,  my  darling  Martha,  I  love  you  \ '  She  gave  a 
little  gasp,  and  her  head  sank  on  his  shoulder,  and  his 
lips  closed  over  hers. 

She  became  covered  with  blushes  when  her  mother 
spoke  to  her.  It  was  in  the  dining-room  after  break- 
fast, and  Edwin  Sangster  from  his  oil  portrait  on  the 
wall  looked  down  at  them.  Patrick  had  told  her 
father  last  night — of  his  love,  of  his  increasingly  hopeful 
prospects.  Her  heart  was  beating  so  loudly,  and  she 
felt  so  giddy,  that  she  did  not  know  what  her  mother 
was  saying.  She  put  out  two  imploring  hands,  and 
sank  into  her  mother's  arms. 

*  I  won't  leave  you,  mummy ;  I  don't  want  to — 
never,  never ' 

*  But  you  love  him,  dear  ?  ' 

She  pressed  her  burning  face  on  her  mother's  breast. 

*  I  love  you  best  of  all — he  took  me  by  surprise — 
I  don't  want  to — 0  !   0  !   0  !  '   she  began  to  sob. 

*  Hush  !  hush  !  '  her  mother  was  stroking  her  hair, 
*  it 's  the  way  we  have  all  been ' :  she  felt  the  girl  coming 
closer — the  keen  ear  of  love,  listening  at  the  mother's 
heart,  *  he  's  very  fond  of  you  ;  you  will  be  very  happy.' 

*  I  *m  not  going  to  leave  you,'  she  cried  in  sudden 


BARNACLES  118 

terror,  clinging  to  her  mother  with  a  fierce  grip.  *  I 
couldn't  live  without  you — he  had  no  right — I  did 

not  mean  him  to^ — to  anything '  she  ended  with  a 

gasp. 

Mrs.  Crawford  poured  out  aU  her  love  upon  the  girl 
alarmed  at  the  dream  come  true,  and  assured  her  they 
would  never  be  separated,  and  that  marriage  lay  away 
somewhere  far  off  in  the  dim  long  years. 

That  evening,  with  lower  lip  quivering  and  eyes  fuU 
of  tears,  she  reproached  him  with  revealing  their  secret. 

*  It  would  not  be  right  of  us  to  carry  on  clandestiae 
love-making,'  he  answered. 

He  was  right.  Mingled  with  her  admiration  of  him 
was  respect  for  his  manliness. 

'  I  thought  we  were  going  to  have  a  lover's  quarrel,'  she 
said  a  little  gaily,  as  if  such  were  a  half -sweet  adventure. 

'  That 's  impossible,'  he  said  fondly. 

The  icy  breath  which  had  passed  between  them 
melted  in  the  fervour  of  their  kiss. 


IV 

The  next  week  he  introduced  his  brother  Ganson, 
an  artist  who  had  studied  in  Paris  and  had  now  set 
up  a  studio  in  Glasgow.  He  had  his  brother's  dark 
eyes,  save  that  they  were  more  piercing  than  Patrick's. 
He  was  older,  short,  squat,  with  a  low  broad  head 
always  butting  forward,  a  bull-dog  neck,  and  massive 
shoulders  which  betrayed  great  strength.  There  was 
a  dark  bar  above  his  eyes  which  gave  him  a  scowling 
look.  His  hands  were  delicate,  white,  and  prehensile ; 
and  he  was  dandified  in  his  dress. 


114  BARNACLES 

He  made  no  good  impression  on  first  appearance ; 
but  this  distaste  soon  vanished  when  his  engaging  and 
sometimes  erudite  tongue  began.  Besides,  he  was 
well-bred,  affected  a  cosmopolitan  air,  possessed  the 
art  of  displaying  his  gifts  to  the  best  advantage,  and 
with  subtle  simplicity  concealed  this  self-advertisement. 

Not  very  long  after  he  was  introduced  to  Dr.Crawford 
he  suggested  in  the  most  casual  way  that  Dr.  Crawford 
should  invite  certain  people  of  standing  whom  he  knew 
to  a  dinner  party,  and  especially  members  of  the 
Committee  of  Glasgow  Corporation  who  bought  pictures 
for  the  city. 

Such  intriguing  was  unpalatable  to  Dr.  Crawford, 
who,  having  thought  over  the  suggestion,  told  the 
artist  that  he  could  not  bring  himself  to  attempt  such 
a  course,  and  was  amazed  when  the  artist  answered : 

*  I  did  not  suggest  this,  did  I  ?  it  must  have  been 
pure  absent-mindedness,  if  so.' 

Dr.  Crawford  eyed  him  with  suspicion,  and  from 
that  moment  took  a  strong  dislike  to  the  artist.  Even 
his  lazy  attitude  as  he  lounged  in  the  deep  chair  had 
something  sinuous  in  it ;  and  his  quiet  self-assurance 
was  that  of  an  intellectual  animal  watching  when  to 
spring. 

Nevertheless,  because  it  was  more  to  his  taste  than 
intriguing  for  commissions  with  committees.  Dr. 
Crawford  accepted  the  artist's  offer  to  paint  the  portrait 
of  Miss  Martha.  The  girl  was  overjoyed,  because 
Patrick  had  been  mourning  his  brother's  want  of  luck 
in  Glasgow.  At  the  same  time  the  evening  papers 
contained  a  notice  that  the  rising  young  artist,  Mr. 
L.  Ganson  Normanshire,  was  painting  the  portrait  of 
Miss  Martha  Crawford,  daughter  of  Mr.  Boyd  Crawford, 


BARNACLES  115 

Mus.D.,  late  organist  of  St.  David's  U.F.  Church,  and 
granddaughter  of  the  late  Mr.  Edwin  Sangster,  of  the 
well-known  firm  Sangster  and  Traill. 

Every  morning  at  ten  o'clock  Martha  sat  to  him 
in  a  room,  once  a  nursery,  at  the  top  of  the  house.  He 
wished  her  to  be  painted  in  Greek  costume,  and  dwelt 
fatiguingly  long  in  arranging  her  draperies. 

One  morning  during  the  second  week  he  kissed  her 
on  the  shoulder.  She  felt  the  spot  sting  Uke  flame, 
and  crouched  into  the  chair  for  a  moment,  as  if  the 
kiss  had  been  a  blow  from  a  hatchet.  The  next  she 
rose,  her  face  pale  as  the  dead,  and  her  nostrils  flutter- 
ing like  the  wings  of  a  butterfly. 

*  What  did  you  do  that  for — you  little  monkey  ?  ' 

*  How  could  I  help  it.  I  've  loved  you  since  the 
first  day  I  saw  you.' 

She  burned  with  shame. 

'  Me,'  she  gasped,  '  your  brother's  fiancee ;  you 
make  me  feel  I — ^am — ^bad.' 

Amazement  was  in  his  face  and  voice. 
'  My  brother's  fiancee  !  ' 

*  Didn't  you  know  ?  ' 

*  How  could  I  know :  my  action  proves  I  was  ignorant ' 
— he  made  a  pretty  play  of  gesture,  after  the  manner 
of  France. 

'  You  are  lying,'  she  said  coldly,  and  passed  out  of 
the  room. 

In  that  moment  the  soul  of  Mr.  Ganson  Normanshire 
was  fiUed  with  a  venomous  hatred  of  the  girl.  He 
walked  up  and  down  the  nursery,  his  eyes  blazing, 
and  little  sounds,  as  of  an  animal,  coming  from  his 
throat.  He  stopped  in  front  of  the  portrait  and  spat 
on  the  canvas. 


116  BARNACLES 


She  was  sure  he  would  not  return  to  the  house,  and 
when  in  the  evening  she  opened  the  drawing-room 
door  and  saw  him  sitting  at  his  ease,  legs  crossed, 
and  measuring  the  finger-tips  of  one  hand  against  the 
other,  she  was  so  overcome  with  faintness  that  she 
could  not  move. 

'  Oh  !  Miss  Martha,'  she  heard  his  suave,  deferential 
tones,  '  we  have  deferred  a  matter  of  dispute  to  you. 
Which  has  the  greater  influence  upon  the  masses — 
lyric  music  or  that  which  we  call  classical  ?  I  pointed 
out  to  your  father  that  the  baUad  singers  were  in  vogue 
long  before  the  era  of  orchestras.' 

*  And  fingers  long  before  forks,'  laughed  Dr.  Crawford ; 
*  yet  forks  appear  to  have  a  refining  influence.* 

She  could  not  remain  any  longer  where  she  was.  A 
sickly  atmosphere  enveloped  her  as  she  walked  pale 
and  cold  into  the  room.  She  felt  she  must  say  some- 
thing for  her  father's  sake,  when  he  spoke  again. 

*  Orchestral  music  fails  because  it  needs  an  educated 
audience.     The  ballad  is  the  cry  of  the  people.' 

'  Just  as  painting  fails,  I  suppose,  because  it  needs 
an  educated  eye,'  she  said. 

*  Right,'  he  answered,  *  I  agree  with  you.  The 
meaning  inherent  in  art  or  music  is  everything.  For 
instance,  the  Pathetic  Symphony.  Its  music  is 
barbaric.  That  is  its  lasting  worth.  It  is  the  voice 
of  the  steppes.     WiU  you  not  play  it,  Miss  Martha  ? ' 

She  was  heart-sick,  soul-weary  of  him.  She  pitied 
the  composers  of  music  whose  pearls  were  used  by 
such  rogues. 


BARNACLES  117 

'  You  must  excuse  me,'  she  answered  coldly,  '  I  have 
had  a  headache  to-day.' 

'  I  am  sorry.  Art  becomes  ashes  at  such  times.  This 
forenoon,  for  instance,  I  could  make  no  speed  with 
your  portrait.' 

She  was  seized  with  inexplicable  fear  when  she 
heard  him  speak  openly  of  the  portrait,  the  arena  of 
her  shame  and  of  his  effrontery.  The  room  began  to 
sway  about  her.  She  wished  to  scream  out  that  she 
would  give  no  more  sittings. 

'  Will  you  do  that,  Martha  ? '  she  was  at  last  conscious 
of  her  father's  voice. 

'  Do  what  ? '  She  could  scarcely  articulate  the  words. 

'  Mr.  Normanshire  wishes  to  commence  half  an  hour 
earlier.' 

'  It  may  be  a  Uttle  inconvenient  for  you  ;  but  it  is 
helping  my  career,'  he  said  earnestly ;  *  time  is  of 
importance  to  me.' 

His  words  gave  rise  to  an  intense  loathing  of  him  in 
her  soul.  She  saw  that  both  she  and  her  father  were 
being  made  his  dupes.  Afraid  that  every  succeeding 
moment  would  prove  disastrous,  she  arose,  her  breasts 
heaving  stormUy,  and  with  all  the  pride  of  Sangster 
blood  she  raked  him  with  a  look,  and  said  : 

'  I  cannot  come  before  ten  o'clock  ;  and  even  then  it 
depends  on  circumstances  whether  I  shall  come  at  all ' : 
and  she  turned  to  her  father,  '  Excuse  me,  daddy ;  I 
have  some  things  to  attend  to.' 

He  was  at  the  door  before  her,  holding  it  open. 

'  I  shall  have  the  pleasure  then  at  ten  to-morrow.' 

She  passed  him  by  in  silence,  her  eyes  held  steady 
in  front  of  her,  her  step  as  firm  as  a  soldier's. 

*  I  will  make  her  pay  for  all  yet,'  he  almost  breathed 


118  BARNACLES 

audibly  in  the  face  of  her  father,  as  he  went  back  to 
his  seat. 

As  for  Martha,  she  determined  to  go  to-morrow  on 
a  visit  to  a  Norwegian  friend  whom  she  had  met  in 
Germany,  and  who  was  now  at  school  in  Edinburgh  ; 
but  before  long  she  became  convinced  that  this  was 
sheer  flight,  and  her  pride  was  roused.  Such  was  the 
nature  of  this  girl.  Where  she  genuinely  loved  she 
would  love  with  tenderness  and  ardour  to  the  death  ; 
and  where  her  pride  was  touched  it  would  sting  like 
fire,  and  cause  her  to  endure,  if  need  be  even  in  silence, 
as  much  as  her  love  itseK  would  bear  of  suffering.  Her 
cheek  burned  on  the  piUow ;  she  would  face  Mr. 
Normanshire  in  the  morning  ;  she  would  be  finished 
,  once  and  for  ever  with  this  conflict. 

He  was  at  work  when  she  arrived.  As  he  approached 
to  arrange  the  draperies  she  stood  up. 

'  Stay  where  you  are,  if  you  please.' 

He  shrugged. 

*  You  have  not  got  these  things  properly  arranged.' 

*  Understand,'  she  answered,  '  you  are  here  on 
sufferance  ;  you  must  not  come  near  me.' 

Jaded  of  body  from  a  sleepless  night,  she  was  weary 
in  spirit  of  this  clash.  She  wanted  to  walk  away  from 
this  man  and  his  painting — ^for  ever. 

*  But  the  portrait  will  be  spoiled.' 

*  I  am  indifferent ;  I  do  not  care  if  it  is  never  finished.* 
Mr.  Normanshire's  heart  went  on  fire.     There  and 

then  he  meditated  her  murder.  For  two  long  minutes 
he  kept  his  head  bent  behind  the  canvas  out  of  her 
sight.  She  never  knew  the  tremendous  struggle  that 
was  going  on  behind  the  concealing  easel.  Only  one 
thing  saved  her  life,  and  that  was  his  sane  conviction 


BARNACLES  119 

that  in  that  room  and  at  that  hour  he  could  not  hide 
the  murder. 

At  length  he  lifted  his  face,  which  yet  showed  traces 
of  his  madness  in  spite  of  the  supreme  effort  which  he 
made  to  conceal  it. 

*  Oh  !  very  well,' — his  voice  had  just  the  suspicion 
of  a  tremble — '  I  shall  have  to  do  my  best.  It  is  a 
matter  of  importance  to  me,  I  assure  you.  I  am 
putting  aU  I  know  into  your  portrait.  My  future 
may  depend  on  it.' 

She  was  disarmed  by  these  words ;  and  their  appeal 
to  her  clemency,  in  a  voice  which  had  none  of  his 
characteristic  assurance,  touched  her  heart.  She  sat 
down,  breathing  a  little  rapidly. 

'  I  have  no  desire  to  spoil  your  chances  of  success  ; 
but  you  mustn't  take  the  slightest  liberty  with  me 
again.' 

He  permitted  himself  one  look  of  malice  over  the 
edge  of  the  canvas — a  long  look,  for  her  head  was  down- 
cast, which  preserved  his  hands  at  their  lawful  task. 

But  it  was  impossible  to  work.  A  devil  within  him 
would  subside  for  a  little,  then  rise  afad  tear  him.  If 
he  yielded  to  it  now  he  would  get  her  life,  but  his  own 
would  stand  in  dire  jeopardy.  At  last  he  stepped  back 
from  the  canvas. 

'  It  won't  do,'  he  said.  '  I  'm  making  a  hash  of 
things.  You  '11  be  glad  to  hear  that  I  relieve  you  of 
your  servitude.' 

He  turned  his  back  on  her  and  began  working  with 
his  materials. 

*  Do  you  mean,'  she  asked,  with  a  rising  inflection, 
'  that  I  need  not  return  any  more  ? ' 

For  a  moment  he  kept  his  back  to  her.     She  heard 


120  BARNACLES 

the  little  duU  thud  of  paint  tubes  on  a  metallic  surface. 
Something  snapped  with  a  click,  and  then  he  faced  her 
— smiling  a  little  wanly. 

'  That  might  be  the  deatfi-warrant  of  my  career.  I 
only  ask  that  you  will  consider  yourself  released  from 
bondage  for  to-day.     I  'm  making  a  mess  of  things.' 

The  wan  smUe  looked  pathetic  ;  his  voice  was  very 
penitent ;  she  felt  grieved  that  he  was  put  out.  With 
downcast  eyes  she  made  her  slow  way  to  the  easel, 
hoping  that  by  showing  some  interest  she  might  banish 
his  disappointment.  She  was  astonished,  not  only  at 
the  lifelike  appearance  of  the  portrait,  but  at  its  growth. 

'  Oh  !  '  she  cried  in  admiration,  '  how  weU  you  are 
getting  on.' 

*  I  have  to  ;  I  was  working  at  it  at  six  this  morning,' 
he  answered. 

*  Here  ?  '  she  asked  in  amazement. 

*  No  !   in  my  rooms  ;  I  took  it  away  last  night.' 
She  was  seized  with  remorse.     He  was  struggling 

hard,  and  she  was  putting  obstacles  in  his  way.  He 
did  not  know  she  was  engaged.  She  allowed  her  mind 
to  dwell  on  this.     Perhaps  she  had  wronged  him. 

*  I  shall  do  everything  I  can  to  assist  you,'  she  said 
impulsively. 

Again  he  smiled  a  little  wanly,  and  shook  his  head. 

*  There  is  only  one  thing  needed,  but  it  seems  out  of 
the  question  now.' 

'  What  is  it  ?  ' 

*  The  draperies.  I  assure  you  it  is  essential,  and  I 
will  not  take  any  liberty.  I  did  not  know  you  were 
engaged  to  Patrick.     I  swear  it,  Miss  Martha.' 

Her  heart  was  beating  to  suffocation.  She  could  not 
raise  her  eyes  to  meet  his. 


BARNACLES  121 

*  Why  did  he  not  let  you  know  ? '  Her  voice  was 
scarcely  audible. 

He  shook  his  head. 

*  I  don't  know  anything  about  that.  What  I  want  to 
know  is,  am  I  forgiven,  Miss  Martha  ?  It  is  the  only 
condition  in  which  I  can  make  progress  with  my  work.' 

At  last  she  raised  her  eyes.  They  rested  on  his  face 
a  moment,  faltered,  and  looked  down. 

*  I  will  give  you  all  the  help  I  can  that  the  portrait 
may  be  a  success,'  she  said  softly. 

He  bowed  ;  and  '  I  am  forgiven,'  he  said. 

She  nodded  to  him  and  ran  out  of  the  room. 

He  closed  the  door  noiselessly  after  her,  and  stood 
listening  till  her  footsteps  died  away  in  silence  down 
the  stair.  Then  a  remarkable  change  came  over  him. 
For  a  moment  he  stood  hissing  while  his  dark  eyes 
blazed  up  in  his  pale  face.  Suddenly  his  tense  body 
relaxed  ;  he  gave  a  howl,  gripped  his  hair,  ran  to  the 
canvas  and  spat  and  spat  on  it ;  then  fell  on  the  floor, 
rolling  over  and  over,  making  horrible  sounds  in  his 
throat,  while  his  hands  tore  his  hair. 

When  he  finally  arose  quietened,  his  spent  face  had 
the  look  of  a  man  who  has  been  engaged  in  an  orgy. 


VI 

She  felt  extreme  pity  for  him  that  day  as  she  thought 
of  the  isolation  and  obscurity  of  his  lot.  With  a  frail 
brush,  some  paint,  and  a  piece  of  canvas  he  was 
struggling  unseen  and  unheard  for  a  place  in  the  earth. 
Her  father  and  her  lover  carried  the  immediate  practice 
of  their  art  before  the  public,  and  had  the  chance  of 


122  BARNACLES 

inspiration  from  the  crowd.  He  was  working  alone 
and  unapplauded,  like  an  animal  in  the  dark  burrowing 
towards  the  light. 

She  thought  as  well  of  his  work,  which  she  admired 
the  more  in  that  she  herself  could  neither  paint  nor 
draw.  It  seemed  to  her  miraculous  that  by  means  of 
a  brush  and  paint  the  living  likeness  of  a  person  could 
be  put  on  to  canvas.  She  stole  to  the  nursery  ;  put 
the  canvas  on  the  easel,  and  for  a  long  time  gazed  at 
the  half-finished  painting. 

It  was  one  of  Patrick's  evenings  and  he  came  late, 
excusing  himself  with  a  press  of  business  at  the  office 
— stocktaking  and  the  like. 

She  stood  back  from  him,  smoothing  down  a  collar 
of  lace,  and  spoke  with  an  air  of  reserve. 

'  Then  you  couldn't  come  and  keep  me  company 
when  I  'm  sitting  to  your  brother  ? ' 

*  At  ten  in  the  morning  ?  Do  you  want  me  to  get  the 
sack,  Martha  ?  ' 

'  I  wish  you  could,  just  for  a  few  days,  tiU  the 
portrait  is  finished.' 

*  Is  he  boring  you  with  his  eternal  Paris  ? '  Patrick 
laughed. 

'  N — ^no,'  she  hesitated  and  coloured. 

His  lean  jaws  suddenly  clamped  as  he  keenly 
scrutinised  her  face. 

'  What  is  it,  Martha  ?  ' 

He  reached  out  and  drew  her  to  his  knee.  He  felt 
her  come  reluctantly. 

'  It  is  of  no  consequence — ^now  ;  I  thought  you  might 
ask  off  and  come.  I  've  never  asked  anything  from 
you  before.' 


BARNACLES  128 

*  You  don't  know  what  you  are  saying.  It  is  im- 
possible. We  're  all  working  overtime  just  now.  Look 
here ' — there  was  a  little  break  of  anxiety  in  his  voice — 
*  don't  look  disappointed  because  I  can't  come ;  better 
give  up  this  portrait  business  altogether.' 

His  tone  was  peremptory.  A  frown  had  gathered  on 
his  face.     She  shrank  back. 

'  I  only  asked  you  to  come  ;  I  did  not  ask  for  advice. 
Her  tone  was  a  little  distant,  a  little  cold.  '  You  cannot 
come.  That  is  aU  ...  as  for  giving  up,  would  it  be 
fair  to  your  brother  ?  He  has  his  career  to  make.  .  .  . 
Oh  please,  you  are  hurting  my  hand.' 

He  released  the  hand.  A  look  of  gloom  settled  on 
his  face. 

*  I  don't  understand  you.  Why  do  you  ask  me  to 
come  to  the  sittings  ?  ' 

She  had  begun  to  pleat  the  folds  of  her  skirt  with 
nervous  fingers.  The  blood  was  slowly  ebbing  away 
from  her  face  as  she  did  this,  as  if  her  fingers  had  some- 
thing to  do  with  the  draining  away  of  her  colour. 
Suddenly  her  fingers  ceased,  her  body  stiffened,  and 
she  rose  slowly  off  his  knee.  It  was  like  a  gesture  of 
farewell.  Her  head  was  held  very  high.  Within  the 
last  few  moments  dark  circles  had  grown  about  her 
eyes.     She  was  absolutely  pale,  and  spoke  breathlessly. 

*  Why  did  you  not  tell  your  brother  we  were 
engaged  ?  ' 

The  moment  the  question  was  asked  there  was  a 
shudder  at  her  heart.  She  knew  she  had  taken  a 
terrible  step. 

He  rose  slowly,  and  stood  over  her  frowning  with  the 
dark  blood  rushing  to  his  face. 

'  Did  he  tell  you  that  ?  ' 


124  BARNACLES 

*  Would  I  ask  if  not  ? '  she  said  scornfully,  though 
fear  was  rapidly  invading  her  heart. 

She  was  forced  to  look  up  at  last  because  of  his  pro- 
longed silence.  His  eyes  seemed  to  be  searching  to  her 
soul. 

*  May  I  ask  what  you  were  talking  about  that  led 
my  brother  to  give  you  such  curious  information  ?  ' 

His  tone  seemed  to  withdraw  his  very  person  away 
from  her,  in  an  icy  suspicion  which  flicked  her  quiver- 
ing soul. 

'  No,  you  may  not.' 

*  Is  that  all  you  have  to  say  to  my  question, 
Martha  ?  ' 

'  Yes  ;  except  that  you  are  very  absurd.' 

*  If  I  am,  it  is  because  I  am  afraid  of  my  brother.' 
'  You  ought  not  to  have  brought  him  here,  then.' 
'  I  see  that.' 

These  words  made  a  sudden  gulf  of  sUence  in  the 
room.  Each  felt  there  was  something  irreparable  in 
them.  Her  face  became  scarlet  at  the  innuendo,  and 
her  pride  rose  fiercely. 

*  You  need  say  no  more ;  I  was  not  aware  that  it  was 
not  safe  to  bring  him  here.' 

He  made  a  gesture  of  despair. 

*  It  was  yourseK  said  so.' 

*  No,  it  was  not.' 

*  It  was  ;  and  what  is  more,  you  are  keeping  some- 
thing back  from  me  ;  something  that  there  is  between 
you  and  my  brother,  that  made  you  ask  me  to  come  to 
the  sittings.' 

*  I  asked  you  why  you  did  not  tell  him  we  were 
engaged.' 

He  lost  control  of  himself  and  flamed  out :   *  What 


BARNACLES  125 

right  have  you  to  ask  that  ?  why  did  my  brother  tell 
you  that  ?  ' 

Her  pride  swelled  to  meet  his  anger. 

*  I  will  not  be  subjected  to  your  jealousy.  ...  I 
am  not  accustomed — to  scenes.' 

*  Do  you  think  they  are  food  and  drink  to  me  ?  * 
he  asked  fiercely. 

*  I  don't  know,  I  'm  sure.' 

She  spoke  as  if  he  was  a  stranger. 

For  one  tense  moment  they  gazed  at  one  another. 
Each  felt  that  if  they  separated  now  the  irrevocable 
would  sunder  them  for  ever. 

*  You  don't  know — after  aU — that  has  been  between 
us,'  he  said  in  a  hard  voice. 

'  And  what  do  you  know,  after  all  there  has  been 
between  us,  that  you  call  me  in  question  with  your 
brother  ? ' 

Their  eyes  no  longer  held  each  other  ;  that  moment 
had  passed  ;  the  irrevocable  came ;  there  only  remained 
for  their  bodies  to  separate.  .  .  .  '  You  stand  in  front 
of  me  like  a  judge  .  .  .'  the  rage  of  pride  blinded  her 
.  .  .  '  please  let  me  pass.' 

One  moment,  as  he  looked  at  her,  he  wondered  if  he 
had  ever  seen  this  girl  before.  The  next  moment  he 
stood  aside. 

Patrick  stood  over  his  brother  who  was  painting,  and 
stared  down  at  him  gloomily. 

'  What  made  you  teU  Miss  Crawford  that  you  did 
not  know  I  was  engaged  to  her  ? '  he  burst  out. 

His  brother  looked  up. 

*  And  all  the  time  I  thought  you  were  admiring  my 
work.    It  is  to  be  a  gift  to  Dr.  Crawford.' 


126  BARNACLES 

*  Tell  me,'  said  Patrick,  '  or  I  will  strangle  you.* 
He  raised  his  clenched  fist. 

The  artist  slipped  his  brush  in  the  cleft  of  his  ear  and 
rose.  '  My  poor  Pat ;  your  Miss  Crawford  is  kittenish  : 
I  would  not  grieve  or  break  my  heart,  if  I  were  you.' 

Before  he  could  say  any  more  the  clenched  fist  took 
him  fuU  in  the  face.  The  artist  staggered  back  against 
the  easel,  which  with  the  canvas  came  crashing  on  the 
floor.  He  picked  them  up,  dusted  the  canvas  with  his 
handkerchief,  and  replaced  it  on  the  easel.  Then  with 
his  hand  on  his  face  he  turned  on  his  brother. 

'  What  did  you  do  that  for,  Pat  ?  ' 

'  For  your  slander ' — the  younger  brother  was  towering 
over  the  other,  his  fist  again  ready,  and  his  eyes  blazing. 

The  artist  shrugged. 

*  I  have  told  you  the  truth,  Pat.  I  have  to  arrange 
the  Greek  gown  when  I  am  painting  her  portrait.  She 
told  me  I  must  be  a  good  boy,  and  asked  if  I  did  not 
know  she  was  engaged  to  you.' 

*  That 's  a  lie.'  Patrick  took  a  single  stride  towards 
his  brother. 

He  held  up  a  delicate  white  hand,  palm  open. 

'  What 's  the  use  of  striking  me  again,  Pat  ?  I  have 
told  you  what  took  place.  Look  here ' — sudden  passion 
sprang  into  his  voice  and  quickened  his  face — '  all  I 
want  is  to  get  this  portrait  finished.  My  career  in 
Glasgow  may  depend  on  it.  Do  you  think  I  would 
ruin  my  chances  by  playing  the  siUy  goat  ?  ' 

Patrick's  jaws  were  working,  as  if  he  were  chewing 
something.  He  was  thinking,  in  face  of  this  candour  of 
his  brother's,  of  Martha's  evasion  and  her  refusal  to  tell 
him  anything.  He  had  yet  an  insane  desire  to  take  his 
brother  by  the  throat,  and  drew  a  deep  sobbing  breath, 


BARNACLES  127 

*  Why,  then,  did  she  ask  me  to  be  present  at  the 
sittings  ?  ' 

*  I  suggested  it,'  said  Ganson  Normanshire  cahnly. 
Patrick  suddenly  felt  sick. 

*  You  ?  '  he  said,  in  a  faint  voice. 

*  Yes,  me  ;  I  didn't  want  to  be  involved  in  a  flirta- 
tion, and  have  to  take  tiU  the  Greek  Kalends  to  get  the 
portrait  finished.' 

'  My  God !  '  said  his  brother,  and  coUapsed  on  a 
chair.  '  0  Ganson !  Ganson !  I  could  have  pledged 
my  soul  for  her.' 

*  Your  sold  ;  she  's  not  worth  a  tinker's  curse.'  The 
artist's  face  was  suddenly  convulsed  with  rage.  '  I  have 
just  received  a  blow  through  her — ^but  that 's  nothing. 
Do  you  know  what  she  said  about  the  portrait  ? — "  I 
don't  care  if  it  is  never  finished.  I  'm  indifferent."  I 
have  starved  myself  in  Paris  to  hear  this  from  a  doU. 
I  will  exact  the  penalty,  Pat ;  for  the  blow  too.' 

His  face  full  of  black  blood  and  his  glittering  eyes 
were  like  his  brother's  just  when  he  had  swung  his  arm 
to  strike. 

But  his  brother  did  not  hear  him.  His  face  was 
buried  in  his  hands. 

VII 

Ganson  Normanshire  was  sometimes  seized  with  a 
rapture  of  invention.  When  this  ecstasy  was  upon 
him  he  forgot  everything  in  the  world,  and  lived  in 
a  paroxysm  of  painting.  He  was  jealous  of  every 
moment  then  in  his  lonely  pursuit  of  beauty,  and  in 
these  hours  of  great  passion  he  was  careless  either  of 
applause  or  of  reward.    The  one  end  for  him  was  the 


128  BARNACLES 

loveliness  of  the  dream  woven  on  the  canvas ;  and  in 
those  hours  in  which  he  was  lost  to  the  world  in  loving 
beauty  for  its  own  sake  his  soul  was  noble. 

But  once  the  work  was  finished  and  the  speU  had 
vanished  and  the  glow  had  died  out,  his  soul  was  like 
a  desert  which  could  only  be  refreshed  with  the  waters 
of  applause.     For  such  refreshment  he  was  insatiable. 

He  had  finished  the  painting  that  was  to  be  a  gift 
to  Dr.  Crawford.  It  showed  a  long  stretch  of  white 
sand  on  the  edge  of  a  vast  sea  ;  and  above  the  sand 
a  multitude  of  flowers.  The  light  of  the  sea  came  up 
on  the  flowers. 

It  was  aU  as  if  stained  with  scent ;  as  if  through  the 
light  and  flowers  there  passed  a  strain  of  music. 

The  waves  were  wandering  for  ever  beside  the  flowers 
beneath  an  unearthly  light ;  and  away  on  the  edge  of 
the  sea  of  flowers  kneels  a  girl  with  gold  dust  in  her  hair, 
whose  face  has  caught  aU  the  glow  and  about  whose 
head  is  the  brightness  of  a  sea-wind — a  girl  whose 
heart  flows  as  the  sea,  whose  beauty  is  as  the  flowers. 
In  a  pause  of  her  being,  before  love  dawns  for  her  or 
motherhood  comes,  she  is  listening  perhaps  to  the 
moving  of  the  waters,  perhaps  to  the  sea-wind  in  the 
flowers,  or  to  music  in  the  liquid  air  from  an  unseen 
instrument,  as  if  an  angel  had  sUpped  into  the  twilight 
and  with  jewelled  hand  had  touched  an  empyrean 
chord. 

He  wept  when  he  had  finished  the  picture. 

The  soul  of  Dr.  Crawford,  so  sensitive  to  music,  will 
appreciate  this,  he  thought,  as  he  went  with  heart 
hungry  for  recognition  to  the  musician's  house. 

Dr.  Crawford,  who  had  thanked  him,  was  examining 
the  painting. 


BARNACLES  129 

*  What  is  the  girl  doing  ?  '  he  asked  in  his  heavy, 
slow  voice. 

The  artist  was  speechless. 

'  I  don't  know  much  about  painting,  but  it  seems  to 
me  you  artists  give  us  a  sea  and  a  lot  of  flowers  and  then, 
to  toss  it  off,  stick  in  a  girl  or  somebody,  and  then  like 
little  Peterkin  we  outsiders  ask,  What  is  it  aU  about  ? 
and  we  are  left  asking.' 

At  this  juncture  Mrs.  Crawford  came  into  the  room. 

'  Here  you  are,  mother ;  Mr.  Normanshire  has  given 
us  a  painting.'  Mrs.  Crawford's  neat  little  figure  came 
forward  almost  at  a  run.     Her  two  hands  were  out. 

*  Oh  !  '  she  cried,  '  how  lovely ! ' 

Her  head  jerked  a  little ;  her  mUd  eyes,  full  of  the 
tenderest  admiration,  went  from  the  picture  to  the 
artist's  face  and  back  again  to  the  artist.  The  canvas 
shook  in  her  trembling  hands. 

'  I  don't  know  how  you  can  do  this,  Mr.  Normanshire  ; 
you  ought  to  feel  very  proud.  I  am  sure  I  should  be. 
It  is  exquisite.     What  a  gift  you  have.' 

His  being  glowed.  He  looked  at  the  silvery  face  and 
the  sad  illumined  eyes  with  rapture. 

*  It  needs  more  than  a  gift,'  he  answered  ;  *  it  means 
rising  early  and  late  to  bed.' 

'  If  I  could  do  that  I  should  never  want  to  sleep,' 
she  said,  smiling  tenderly  at  him. 

*  You  've  got  an  enthusiast  in  mother,  anyhow,'  said 
Dr.  Crawford,  laughing  heartily. 

The  artist  shot  a  glance  of  venom  at  him. 

*  I  'm  afraid  it 's  not  worth  while  being  enthusiastic 
about,'  he  said. 

'  Oh  !  don't  say  that ' — Mrs.  Crawford  looked  at  him 
with  a  great  light  of  affection  in  her  eyes — '  you  have 

I 


130  BARNACLES 

toiled  night  and  day  and  given  it  to  us.  We  shall  be 
so  proud.  I  wish  Martha  were  here  to  see  it.  I  don't 
know  how  to  thank  you.' 

He  forgot  the  lukewarmness  of  Dr.  Crawford :  he 
was  ready  to  worship  his  wife.  He  even  thought  with 
pity  of  her  small  jerking  head,  and  her  eyes  half- 
smiling,  haK-pleading,  looking  at  him  more  fondly, 
more  wistfuUy  than  eyes  had  ever  looked  at  him. 

When  he  left  the  house  his  heart  was  filled  with 
rancour  as  he  thought  of  Dr.  Crawford. 

'  Curse  him,  the  Philistine !  he  is  his  daughter's 
father,'  he  growled  fiercely. 

The  thought  that  his  picture  was  hanging  before  the 
icy  eyes  of  this  man  steeped  him  in  agony  the  whole 
night  long. 

In  the  morning  he  began  to  work  feverishly  at 
another  painting,  and  day  by  day  allowed  himself 
hardly  to  eat  or  to  sleep.  He  was  like  a  man  de- 
mented before  the  canvas. 

As  soon  as  it  was  finished  he  packed  it  up  and  sent 
it  to  Dr.  Crawford  along  with  a  brief  note  : 

'  I  send  you  this  in  which  the  meaning  is  plain,  so 
that  you  may  rest  your  eye  on  it  when  you  are  weary 
and  even  the  charm  of  music  fails.' 

Dr.  Crawford  felt  insulted  and  hid  the  picture  from 
his  wife.  He  was  greatly  astonished  when  a  friend  to 
whom  he  showed  it  said  : 

*  I  don't  know  whether  the  fellow  is  a  genius  or  merely 
a  very  clever  man,  but  it  is  amazingly  fine.' 

It  showed  a  derelict  in  mid-ocean  bathed  in  the  sunset, 
with  nothing  left  standing  but  her  three  stumps.  She 
was  far  gone  by  the  bow.  Her  hatches  were  open  like 
a  wound ;  and  a  single  shaft  of  the  last  light  streamed 


BARNACLES  131 

into  the  forehold  and  revealed  a  dead  man  lying  there, 
and  near  him  a  big  rat  lean  to  the  ribs  with  famine. 
The  rest  of  the  hold  was  in  darkness.  Only  the  white 
face  and  the  grey  beast  stood  out  in  the  light.  The 
rat  was  about  to  attack  the  face  when  it  heard  the 
inrush  from  a  leak.  Its  companions  had  already  fled. 
Its  ears  were  cocked  back  at  the  sound  of  the  water, 
but  its  eyes,  bright  with  hunger,  were  fastened  on  the 
face. 

Dr.  Crawford's  friend  shuddered. 

'  I  can  hear  the  gurgle  of  the  water.  Will  the  rat 
bolt  ?  '  and  he  put  his  finger  to  some  neat  lettering 
on  the  low  right-hand  corner  of  the  canvas  which  ran — 
*  Appetite — the  Last  Look.' 

'  The  rat  is  done  for,'  he  said. 

*  It  is  horrible,'  answered  Dr.  Crawford. 

*  I  wonder  what  the  fellow  meant ;  is  it  the  last  look 
of  the  rat,  or  of  the  setting  sun  as  it  watches  the  tragedy 
of  appetite  ?  ' 

*  Oh  !  take  it  away  with  you  if  it  pleases  you,'  was 
the  disgusted  answer ;  '  I  meant  to  bum  it.' 

The  following  evening  the  artist  called. 
Dr.  Crawford,  in  his  slow,  deliberate  way,  with  his 
straight,  almost  hard  and  staring  look,  said  to  him : 

*  That  picture  of  yours  may  be  all  right  as  a  work  of 
art.  I  have  no  knowledge  of  painting :  but  it  gave 
me  the  grue.' 

*  Did  it  ?  '  said  the  artist  in  a  quiet  voice. 

*  It  did.  To  be  frank  with  you,  Mr.  Normanshire,  I 
would  not  have  it  ia  my  house.  Fine  thing  to  rest  the 
eye  on.  I  gave  it  to  a  friend  of  mine  who  appeared  to 
appreciate  it.  All  the  same,  I  think  you  are  wasting 
your  time  pamting  such  stuflE.' 


132  BARNACLES 

A  sickly  smile  appeared  on  the  artist's  face.  His  lips 
moved  but  no  sound  came  from  them. 

*  Lucky  my  wife  or  Miss  Crawford  did  not  see  it. 
They  're  raving  over  that  girl  of  yours  among  the 
flowers.  It  might  have  spoiled  their  high  opinion  of 
you.  What  has  come  over  Patrick  ?  He  hasn't  been 
here  for  an  age.' 

The  artist  made  no  answer.  He  lay  back  in  the 
chair  as  if  he  were  dead.  He  was  thinking  of  how  he 
might  murder  Dr.  Crawford. 


VIII 

The  house  was  hushed  and  every  one  went  about 
white-faced — servants,  mother,  and  daughter — dread 
alternating  with  hope  in  their  bosom. 

Dr.  Crawford,  who  had  been  curling,  was  forced  to 
leave  the  roaring  sport  because  of  a  pain  in  his  side. 
This  pain  increased  until  he  felt  as  if  a  hot  iron  band 
were  bound  about  his  chest.  The  doctor  had  pro- 
nounced the  dread  word,  '  double  pneumonia.' 

Martha,  who  had  never  seen  serious  iUness,  was  in 
consternation  from  the  very  first  sight  of  her  father, 
whose  face  had  changed  its  appearance  in  a  single  day, 
and  had  upon  it  another-world  look.  What  appalled 
her  most  was  that  though  he  smiled  and  gasped, 
*  A  discord  —  here  —  Martha,'  she  was  conscious 
that  all  the  strength  of  his  nature  was  needed  for 
himself.  Already  he  had  receded  from  her.  As  she 
wiped  the  sweat  on  his  brow  she  could  scarcely 
stand  at  the  bedside.  She  gave  him  a  look  of 
agonised  tenderness. 


BARNACLES  133 

*  Are  you  feeling  any  better,  daddy  ? '  she  managed 
to  articulate. 

'  By  and  by — don't  be  alarmed.'  The  attempted 
cheerfulness  of  his  smile  rent  her  heart. 

The  nurse  came  quietly  to  her  side. 

'  I  think  you  should  leave  him  now,  Miss  Martha. 
He  is  not  to  talk.' 

Her  heart  was  full  of  despair.  It  was  hke  taking  an 
eternal  farewell.     '  I  '11  come  soon  again,  daddy.' 

He  nodded.  When  she  was  gone  he  turned  his  face 
to  the  wall. 

As  soon  as  she  reached  her  room  she  sank  in  a  state 
of  collapse  on  the  bed,  dry-eyed,  mute  as  a  stone,  as 
wave  upon  wave  of  pain  roUed  over  her. 

In  this  state  Mrs.  Crawford  found  her.  At  her 
mother's  touch  she  looked  up  and  moaned,  '  0 
mummy  !  mummy  !  will  he  get  better  ?  ' 

The  frail  head  was  jerking  violently  ;  it  seemed  to 
jerk  out  the  low-spoken  words,  '  Hush  !  hush  !  he  is  in 
God's  hands.' 

The  sight  of  her  mother's  trembling  lips  filled  the 
heart  of  the  girl  with  a  great  fear.  She  jumped  up  and 
hid  her  face  on  the  maternal  breast. 

'  0  daddy  !  daddy  !  daddy  !  '  she  cried  ;  and  a 
relieving  flow  of  tears  came. 

The  silent  tears  of  the  mother  were  dropping  fast  on 
the  head  of  the  girl. 

•  •••••• 

In  the  evening  some  one  knocked  at  her  door.  When 
she  opened  it  the  sight  of  the  maid's  scared  face  turned 
her  blood  to  water. 

*  What  is  it,  Lizzie  ? '  She  could  hardly  speak  the 
words.    There  were  large  dark  rings  round  her  eyes ; 


184  BARNACLES 

her  hair  had  become  dry  and  brittle  since  the  morning  ; 
her  lips  were  blanched  and  parched.  The  girl's  appear- 
ance made  the  maid  stare. 

*  Can  you  come  down  to  the  library  ? '  she  said ; 

*  Mr.  Normanshire  and  his  brother  are  in.' 

She  recoiled  and  put  a  hand  on  her  breast. 

The  maid  began  to  cry.  '  It  is  awful ;  he  won't 
leave  till  he  sees  you,'  she  sobbed  into  her  apron. 

The  sight  of  the  servant  in  this  condition  roused  her 
courage.    The  look  of  death  passed  from  her  face. 

*  Don't  cry,  Lizzie  ;  I  'U  come  at  once.' 

She  went  downstairs  with  a  firm  step,  which  she 
quickened  as  she  came  near  the  door  of  the  library.  A 
determination  in  which  fear  and  despair  had  vanished 
filled  her  being.  When  she  reached  the  library  door, 
which  was  ajar,  and  pushed  it  open,  her  eyes  were 
flashing  angrily. 

A  horrible  sight  met  her  gaze.  Sprawling  on  the 
chair  was  Patrick,  his  clothes  disordered,  an  imbecile 
look  on  his  face,  his  eyes  muddy  and  blinking  feebly. 

*  What  does  this  mean  ? '  From  the  threshold  her 
voice  rang  clear  and  penetrating. 

The  artist,  who  was  standing  near  his  brother,  turned 
to  her  and  clenched  his  hands.  '  He  is  unspeakable  ; 
he  won't  leave.' 

She  felt  as  if  she  were  standing  on  adamant  with 
red-hot  fire  beneath.    This  fire  was  also  in  her  body. 

*  You  must  get  your  brother  out  of  here — at  once.' 
Her  eyes  were  flashing  on  the  artist.  As  if  they  drew 
him,  he  walked  towards  her,  and  said  in  a  low  voice  : 

'  I  hope  you  do  not  lay  the  blame  for  this  on  me.  He 
insisted  on  coming  and  kicked  and  screamed.  I  had 
to  yield  for  fear  he  would  be  put  in  jail.' 


BARNACLES  135 

*  Better  there  than  here,'  she  answered  in  a  voice 
full  of  scorn.  The  blood  drained  away  from  the  artist's 
face.     His  dark  eyes  glittered  at  her. 

*  No  doubt,'  he  answered  calmly  ;  '  perhaps  if  you 
speak  to  him  he  will  go  away  quietly.  1  have  'phoned 
for  a  cab.' 

She  walked  right  up  to  Patrick,  whose  head  was 
fallen  almost  between  his  legs. 

*  Mr.  Normanshire,  wUl  you  please  go  away — ray 
father  is  very  ill  ? ' 

He  lifted  his  eyes  in  a  sodden  stare. 

*  That— sh— you— Martha  ? ' 

She  made  an  imperious  gesture  to  the  artist  and  said, 
*  Take  him  away.' 

A  devil  of  malice  lurked  in  the  artist's  eyes  as 
he  came  forward  and  they  rested  on  her.  He 
took  his  brother  by  the  oxter  and  jerked  him  on 
to  his  feet. 

'  Come,  Pat,'  he  said  coaxingly. 

*  All  ri' — '  He  staggered  to  his  feet.  *  Let  go  ! '  He 
tried  to  shake  off  his  brother's  grip,  reeled  towards 
Martha,  and  put  a  hand  on  her  shoulder.  The  artist, 
gnawing  his  under  lip,  watched. 

She  was  filled  with  intense  disgust,  but  stood  quietly 
as  he  pawed  her. 

*  Please  go  away — father  is  so  ill.' 

*  Shorry — Marthe.' 

She  looked  at  the  artist.     *  Won't  you  take  him  ?  * 
The  soul  of  the  artist  gloated  over  her  pleading  eyes. 
He  took  his  brother  by  the  arm. 

*  Don't  you  hear  ?  come  on.     Dr.  Crawford  is  iU.' 

*  Let — sh — ^go — Marthe '     He  stretched  out  his 

band  to  her  as  he  was  being  dragged  away,  and  turned 


136  BARNACLES 

his  head,  attempting  to  look  back.  He  cannoned  off 
the  door-post  and  reeled  out. 

*  O  Mr.  Normanshire,  don't  hurt  him !  he 's  going 
quite  quietly,'  she  cried. 

The  artist  bared  his  teeth.  She  thought  it  was 
anger  at  his  brother. 

She  heard  the  shuffling  of  feet  as  if  they  were  sounds 
in  a  nightmare  ;  then  the  front  door  opened  and  closed. 
It  shut  out  a  horror  greater  than  that  of  mortal  sickness. 

There  was  a  noise  of  struggle,  a  murmuring  of  voices, 
then  wheels  rattling  away.  With  their  last  echo  there 
also  died  in  her  heart  the  final  flicker  of  the  ardent 
fancy  of  a  girl. 

Silence,  grave  and  healing,  settled  down  on  the  house. 
Slowly  she  went  upstairs  and  listened  to  the  awful 
sounds  of  laboured  breathing  within  her  father's  room. 
They  did  not  leave  her  faint  of  body  or  sick  of  heart 
now.  She  had  realised  that  there  are  worse  things  on 
earth  than  the  presence  of  death.  She  had  passed  in  a 
moment  from  girlhood  to  womanhood;  and  as  she 
stood  listening  there  she  took  a  ring  off  her  finger. 

Calmly  she  gathered  together  all  his  presents,  wrote 
on  a  sheet  of  notepaper  the  words,  '  I  never  want  to 
see  you  again,'  folded  the  sheet  of  paper  over  the 
ring,  and  placed  it  on  the  top  of  the  bundle.  With  the 
parcel  in  her  hand  she  stood  once  more  outside  her 
father's  door.  The  laboured  breathing  had  ceased, 
and  all  was  still  within.  Perhaps  he  was  asleep  in  ease 
at  last.  Perhaps  the  worst  was  over.  Her  heart  beat 
wildly  with  hope,  and  she  breathed  a  prayer  to  God  as 
she  hurried  to  the  Post  Office  at  Charing  Cross  with 
a  parcel  addressed  to  Mr.  Patrick  Normanshire. 

When  she   returned,   running   half   the   way,   her 


BARNACLES  137 

mother,  as  soon  as  she  caught  sight  of  her  drying  the 
rain  on  her  face,  cried,  '  0  my  dear,  my  dear,  where 
have  you  been  ?  We  looked  for  you  high  and  low. 
O  Boyd  !  Boyd  !   my  dear,  dear  man.* 

There  was  no  need  for  the  artist  to  murder  Dr. 
Crawford. 


IX 

The  evening  was  wet  and  raw,  and  as  Patrick  Nor- 
manshire  walked  up  and  down  his  teeth  chattered  and 
his  body  shivered.  He  was  starving  with  cold  and 
hunger,  and  was  hanging  in  the  offing  in  the  hope  of 
seeing  Dr.  Crawford  leave  or  return  to  his  house. 

The  policeman,  who  was  not  starving,  and  was  a 
handsome  silver-worked  safety  valve  for  that  splendid 
neighbourhood,  was  ignorant  of  this  loiterer's  motives, 
and  accosted  him  in  a  surly  voice,  for  it  is  the  duty  of 
the  law  to  suspect. 

*  What  are  you  doing  here  ?  * 

The  interloper  was  startled  and  answered  in  a  good- 
natured  but  hopeless  tone,  '  Nothing.' 

The  policeman,  agreeably  to  the  spirit  of  the  law, 
pursued,  *  Who  are  you  ?  ' 

*  I  ?  oh,  just  a  wren  in  a  wilderness.' 

*  WeU,  you  'd  better  fly  off ;  this  is  not  a  place  for 
you  to  be  hanging  about.' 

*  I  only  wished  to  see  Dr.  Crawford.' 

*  Don't  try  on ;  Dr.  Crawford  was  buried  a  fortnight 
ago.' 

The  good-natured  look  that  was  part  of  the  tone 
gave  way  to  consternation. 


138  BARNACLES 

*  Buried  ? — he  was  in  good  health  when  I  saw  him 
last.' 

*  Many  a  man  in  good  health  yesterday  is  in  no  health 
at  all  to-night.    Come  on ;  get  a  move.' 

He  made  a  shepherding  movement  with  his  arm  and 
at  the  same  time  began  to  bear  down  on  Patrick.  For 
a  minute  the  young  man  kept  stepping  backwards 
with  his  eyes  riveted  on  a  single  lit  window  across  the 
street — steppiug  backwards  as  if  bruised  in  retreat. 
The  policeman,  irritated  at  this  dour  manner  of  yielding 
ground,  made  a  threatening  gesture.  Thereupon  the 
young  man  wheeled  and  began  to  walk  away  so  rapidly 
that  he  soon  outdistanced  the  bulk  of  animated  stone 
that  was  murmuring  irascibly  about  stray  dogs. 

The  houses  hereabouts,  each  with  a  railing  in  front, 
were  laid  out  in  large  square  blocks  flanked  by  wide 
clean  streets.  They  were  plain  of  face,  large,  sub- 
stantial, with  an  air  of  solidity  as  if  their  builders 
had  reared  them  to  become  coeval  with  the  hUls  — 
houses  typical  of  the  centre  of  commercial  Scotland, 
and  worthy  a  nation  of  bankers. 

At  the  comer  of  this  solid  square  the  young  man 
turned  sharply  to  the  right,  and  with  increasing  length 
and  rapidity  of  stride  began  to  walk  round  the  block. 
A  certain  nervousness  had  entered  into  his  gait,  and 
was  betrayed  also  in  his  mobile  mouth  and  finely 
chiselled  nostrils,  which  were  expanding  and  contract- 
ing like  the  inverted  cup  of  a  flower  stirred  in  a  gentle 
breeze.  He  had  forgotten  the  cold,  weariness,  and 
hunger.  He  was  overwhelmed  with  sorrow.  The 
rapidity  of  his  movements  was  not  due  to  a  desire  to 
fling  ofiE  the  pursuit  of  the  law,  but  to  the  excitation 
of  his  thought.    In  spite  of  his  quarrel  with  Martha, 


BARNACLES  189 

he  determined  to  see  *  poor  Mrs.  Crawford.'  He  circum- 
navigated the  square  Uke  a  horse  going  round  a  circus 
— this  was  his  own  thought — ^and  foimd  himself  once 
more  opposite  the  lit  window.  The  policeman  was 
nowhere  visible.  He  had  no  hesitation  now.  At 
once  he  crossed  the  street.  There  was  a  shrubbery 
here  fenced  o£E  from  the  street  with  an  iron  railing, 
and  at  each  end  of  the  shrubbery  an  avenue  leading  in 
a  half -moon  curve  from  the  street  to  the  drive  in  front 
of  the  houses,  among  which  stood  that  of  Dr.  Crawford. 
At  the  fourth  door  along  Patrick  Normanshire  stopped, 
looked  at  the  single  lit  window,  and  wondered  who  was 
there.  He  slowly  went  up  the  four  stone  steps  and 
pressed  a  large  brass  knocker  in  the  form  of  a  hand  on 
the  electric  push  beneath. 

Presently  the  door  was  opened  by  a  middle-aged 
woman  with  high  cheek  bones,  a  thin,  sallow  face,  and 
red  hair.  She  had  a  remarkably  large  mouth,  the  lips 
of  which  for  all  her  thinness  had  a  tendency  to  curl 
upwards  at  the  comers.  She  had  a  pair  of  grey,  alert 
eyes. 

'  Well  ? '  she  said,  standing  with  arms  akimbo. 

*  Is  Mrs.  Crawford  at  home  ? ' 

*  What  is  your  business  ? '  Her  lips  had  the  appearance 
of  sheering  out  at  Patrick.  She  seemed  ready  for  attack. 

*  I  am  her  friend.' 

'  She  and  Miss  Martha  are  away.' 

*  Away  ;   where  ?  ' 

*  Foreign.' 

Patrick  sighed.  *  Is  it  true,'  he  asked  in  a  slightly 
broken  voice,  '  that  Dr.  Crawford  is  dead  ?  ' 

*  Yes  ;  God  has  removed  him.'  She  took  her  hand 
from  her  hip  and  made  a  sweeping  gesture. 


140  BARNACLES 

Patrick,  about  to  turn  away,  said,  *  I  thought,  seeing 
there  was  a  light,  some  one  was  at  home.' 

The  woman  jerked  her  head  forward,  and  her  lips 
curled  up.     *  It 's  a  nasty  painter  that 's  in  there.' 

Patrick's  face  went  white.     *  What  is  his  name  ? ' 

*  Name  o'  Normanshire  and  full  of  the  evil  one.' 

In  spite  of  the  deep  feeling  that  moved  him  at  the 
mention  of  his  brother's  name,  he  smiled. 

'  He  is  my  brother,'  he  said. 

The  woman,  who  was  still  holding  the  door,  again 
thrust  her  face  forward. 

*  Excuse  me  for  saying  it,  but  he  is  a  reprobate.  I 
have  put  his  case  before  the  Lord  ;  a  bad  young  man, 
full  of  tricks  ;  no  temptation  ;  no  temptation  to  me.' 
She  was  pointing  at  Patrick  with  a  fierce  forefinger. 

The  cold  was  again  making  him  shiver. 
'  May  I  see  him  ?  '  he  asked. 

*  Come  in  ;  come  in.'  She  led  him  into  the  dining- 
room  and  lit  the  gas,  saying,  *  You  will  not  know  me, 
sir,  though  you  are  a  friend  of  the  famUy.' 

*  No,  I  don't  think  I  've  met  you  before.' 

'  My  name  is  Beezle.  Mrs.  Crawford  left  me  here  in 
charge  during  her  absence.  I  have  taken  the  responsi- 
biUty  of  inviting  you  in,  a  young  man  ;  no  temptation, 
no  temptation  ;  but  you  are  a  brother  of  the  painter  ; 
are  you  coming  to  take  him  away  ?  ' 

Patrick  was  gazing  round  the  weU-known  room  with 
the  portrait  of  Edwin  Sangster  looking  down  on  him. 
In  the  warmth  of  the  room  he  realised  his  faintness. 
A  pulse  was  beating  irregularly  in  his  throat.  He  ex- 
perienced a  choking  sensation  rising  upwards  from  his 
stomach.  It  would  be  impossible  for  him  to  meet  his 
brother  in  this  condition.    He  had  a  feeling  of  sham© 


BARNACLES  141 

in  making  known  his  state.  '  Yes,'  he  answered,  '  I 
wish  to  see  my  brother  ;  but,  before  that,  may  I  have 
something  to  eat  ?  The  fact  is,  I  have  had  no  food 
to-day.'  He  saw  hesitation  grow  into  suspicion,  and 
this  give  way  to  alarm  in  the  woman's  face.  '  It  is 
due,  I  am  afraid,  to  my  brother,'  he  added. 

Again  the  lips  swiftly  curled.  *  He  is  full  of  tricks  ; 
he  is  a  reprobate.  Do  you  say  it  is  his  fault  that  you 
have  eaten  nothing  to-day  ? ' 

*  I  suspect  it,  but  I  am  going  to  find  out.' 

*  If  I  dared  I  would  write  to  my  mistress  in  Italy 
and  let  her  know  Ms  carry  on  ;  but  I  am  not  respon- 
sible ;  I  have  put  it  before  God  ;  I  am  not  responsible 
for  him.  I  wiU  get  yoiur  dinner.  WiU  you  attack  him 
then,  will  you  scourge  him  ?  ' 

She  departed  in  a  fury  of  haste. 

While  Patrick  was  supping  the  hot  soup  and  trying 
to  conceal  his  ravenous  hunger,  a  chance  question  as 
to  how  long  she  had  been  in  the  house  revealed  Mrs. 
Beezle. 

*  I  have  been  here  three  weeks.  I  just  want  to 
teU  you,  young  man,  how  strange  are  the  ways  God 
leads  us.'  Her  hands  slowly  at  first,  and  then  more 
rapidly,  began  to  make  those  gestures  familiar  to  pubUc 
speakers  and  preachers.  She  was  leaning  forward  on 
her  chair,  her  legs  crossed,  her  face  keen  with  its  sheer- 
ing look. 

*  When  my  own  dear  one  died,  young  man.' 

*  Your  own  dear  one  ?  ' 

*  My  husband ' — she  flung  her  hand  at  Patrick — *  he 
was  removed  five  years  ago.  When  he  was  taken  up  ' — 
she  pointed  to  the  ceiling — '  I  just  went  down  on  my 
knees  and  laid  it  before  God ' — ^her  left  eye,  which  had 


142  BARNACLES 

been  opening  and  closing  during  this  narration,  re- 
mained more  and  more  closed  as  she  proceeded,  and 
her  lips  became  more  and  more  curled  up,  as  if  in  scorn 
of  the  circumstances  to  which  human  affairs  are  subject 
— '  and  I  said,  "  0  dear  God,  I  would  just  like  a  quiet 
home  to  pass  the  rest  of  my  days  in  "  ;  but  only,  mark 
you,'  she  raised  an  admonitory  finger  so  that  the 
puzzled  young  man  did  not  know  whether  she  was  now 
addressing  him  or  stUl  petitioning  the  deity,  *  only  a 
Christian  home.     I  left  it  all  with  God.' 

Now  Mrs.  Beezle  had  already  told  aU  this  to  the 
artist.  Her  opinion  of  the  two  brothers  rested  on  the 
respective  comment  which  each  made  at  this  juncture 
in  her  history.     The  artist's  was  brief : 

*  Get  out,  you  canting  psalm-singer  ;  you  weary  me.' 
Patrick,  not  without  concern  in  his  heart  and  in,  his 

tone,  said, '  I  am  afraid,  madame,  if  you  are  not  careful, 
you  may  fall  off  the  chair.' 

She  gathered  herself  back  and  opened  her  left  eye 
wide  upon  him.  '  Thank  you,  young  man,  but  I  'm 
nimbler  than  all  that.'  She  waved  her  hand.  '  Well, 
after  I  had  left  it  aU  with  God,' — again  she  leaned 
forward  with  legs  crossed,  closed  one  eye,  and  pointed 
a  forefinger  at  Patrick  as  if  she  were  sighting  a  rifle — 
'  I  went  to  live  with  Aunty  Janet  at  Bearsden.' 

*  If  you  will  be  so  good,  will  you  bring  your  narrative 
soon  to  an  end  ? '  asked  Patrick,  who  had  finished  eating 
and  felt  revived. 

The  forefinger  curved  like  a  claw ;  the  whole  hand 
curved  as  if  Mrs.  Beezle  were  about  to  grasp  the  hair 
of  her  impatient  listener. 

*  I  want  to  tell  you  because  you  are  an  educated  and 
well-bred  young  man ;  no  temptation,  no  temptation ; 


BARNACLES  148 

not  like  that  nasty  artist ;  it  will  be  useful  for  you  to  see 
how  God  leads  us  ;  but  if  you  are  in  a  hurry  to  chastise 
the  reprobate  I  wiU  teU  you  in  a  word.  I  was  living  with 
Aunty  Janet,  and  I  just  went  down  on  my  knees  and 
said,  "  0  dear  God,  do  guide  me,"  and  when  I  rose ' 
— she  lifted  her  hand,  remained  sUent  for  a  full  minute, 
then  brought  her  hand  down  on  her  knee — '  I  knew, 
mark  you,  I  knew  what  to  do.  Young  man,  that  is  how 
to  live ;  don't  shilly-shaUy ;  know  what  to  do  and — 
push.'     She  flung  out  her  arm  with  catapult  force. 

*  You  'U  fall,  madame  ;  you  '11  fall,'  cried  Patrick  in 
alarm. 

'  No  fear,  no  fear  ;  I  knew  what  to  do.  I  advertised 
for  a  place  as  housekeeper.  I  put  my  name  in  a  news- 
paper. Not  with  a  young  man,  mark  you ;  no  tempta- 
tion, no  temptation.  In  three  days  I  had  a  letter  from 
a  gentleman  in  Strathbungo.  I  went  down  on  my 
knees  and  thanked  God  for  that  letter.  Do  you  not 
see  where  I  was  being  led  ? ' 

'  No,'  answered  Patrick.  His  interest  in  this  fiery 
creature  was  growing. 

*  Have  patience,  young  man ;  I  have  learned  on  my 
knees ' — she  spread  her  palms  over  the  floor  and  looked 
downwards — *  on  my  knees  to  have  patience  since  my 
dear  one  was  removed.' 

*  I  have  it,'  answered  Patrick  with  a  humorous 
twinkle  in  his  eyes, '  but  will  you  tell  me  for  how  long  ? ' 

'  Do  you  know  what  my  dear  one  used  to  say — he 
came  from  the  isle  of  Skye — ^he  used  to  say,  "  Patience, 
my  dear,  the  horse  is  aye  trotting."  Well,  1  arranged 
an  interview  with  the  gentleman  in  Strathbungo ;  it 
passed  off  all  right ;  he  said  he  would  let  me  know  on 
Monday.    And  when  I  came  home  I  just  put  it  before 


144  BARNACI.es 

God.  "  Dear  God,"  I  said,  "  I  am  going  to  live  in  a 
strange  house.  Keep  me  from  temptation."  He  was 
a  very  nice  gentleman,  not  a  young  man,  mark  you, 
nor  an  old  one.  You  are  yawning.  But  watch  and 
see.  The  horse  is  aye  trotting.  Monday  came  and 
no  word  from  Stra'bungo.  On  Tuesday  I  was  just 
stepping  off  the  car  at  Aunty  Janet's  comer  when  who 
ran  into  me  but  Aunty  Liza's  girl. 

*  "  Is  that  you,  Aunty  Beezle  ?  "  she  said.' 

*  Yes,  yes ;  go  on,'  urged  Patrick. 

'  Well,  young  man,  she  had  just  been  to  Aunty 
Janet's  to  teU  me  that  a  lady  had  called  at  her  mother's 
about  a  housekeeper.  This  lady  and  Liza,  my  sister, 
went  to  the  same  church.  Her  husband,  Dr.  Crawford, 
was  the  organist — a  beautiful  player.  He  could  make 
your  soul  ascend  on  Sabbath  morning.'  Mrs.  Beezle 
flung  up  her  arms  and  roUed  her  eyes  towards  the 
ceiluig. 

Patrick's  interest  now  quickened. 

*  Yes,  I  know  Dr.  Crawford,'  he  said. 

*  Do  you  see,  young  man,  how  God  was  leading  me  ? ' 

*  I  see,  I  see.' 

*  The  very  next  morning  I  had  a  letter  from  the 
gentleman  in  Stra'bungo.  He  had  interviewed  two 
others,  and  would  I  come  and  keep  his  house.  I  just 
went  down  on  my  knees  with  the  letter  in  my  hand  and 
said,  "  0  dear  God,  I  am  in  a  great  difficulty  !  I  want 
you  to  teU  me  where  I  am  to  go,"  and  I  thanked  God 
for  that  letter  too.' 

Patrick  was  definitely  impressed  by  this  woman, 
who  appeared  to  spend  the  major  part  of  her  life 
praying  with  the  innocence  and  faith  of  a  child. 

*  Then  I  went  and  saw  the  lady,  Mrs.  Crawford,  you 


BARNACLES  145 

know.  I  saw  at  once  she  was  a  Christian  woman 
when  I  spoke  to  her  of  God's  ways  in  removing  her 
husband,  and  I  told  her  of  my  difficulty  about  the 
gentleman  in  Stra'bungo.  She  advised  me  to  go  and 
see  him.  So  1  did.  He  received  me  beautifully ;  no 
temptation,  young  man,  no  temptation  ;  and  told  me  I 
wasn't  to  worry,  but  to  take  up  duty  with  Mrs.  Craw- 
ford, and  that  he  couldn't  give  me  the  wages  she  could 
afford.  So  I  just  came  home  to  Aunty  Janet's  and 
thanked  God  for  the  way  I  was  led.' 

She  stopped,  panting  a  little. 

Patrick  rose  and  said  : 

*  You  have  been  led  as  the  good  are  led.' 
She  also  rose. 

'  No,  I  am  not  good ;  I  am  a  sinner.  Satan  tempts 
me  in  many  ways.  Sometimes  it  is  to  lie  in  my  bed 
late  in  the  morning.  I  am  fond  of  that.  And  some- 
times he  whispers  in  my  heart  that  I  have  not  the 
learning  to  go  and  speak  at  the  meetings.' 

'  Do  you  do  that  ?  ' 

'  Don't  you  see  how  God  has  led  me  ? '  She  pointed  at 
him,  screwing  up  the  left  eye  tightly.  '  If  I  had  gone  to 
Stra'bungo  I  would  have  had  no  leisure  there.  Here  I 
have  only  an  empty  house  to  look  after  and  I  have 
a  world  of  time ' — she  swept  her  arms  wide  as  if  to 
embrace  Patrick — '  abundance,  abundance ;  and  I  go 
here,  there,  everywhere  to  morning  meetings  and  guilds ; 
but  Satan  tempts  me  not  to  go,  whispering  that  I  have 
not  the  words ' 

Patrick  interrupted  her,  laughing  : 

*  That  is  not  Satan,  Mrs.  Beezle ;  it  is  your  own 
humility.' 

Her  face  took  on  a  comical  expression,  as  if  she  had 


146  BARNACLES 

walked  up  against  a  physical  obstacle.    This  expression 
vanished,  giving  way  to  a  flood  of  joy. 

'  Dear  God,'  she  cried,  locking  her  hands  and  holding 
them  aloft,  '  I  thank  you  for  this  new  light  on  my 
weakness.  I  will  lie  in  bed  no  more.  It  is  not  Satan 
but  my  own  humility.  0  joy !  joy !  joy !  what  a 
burden  you  have  rolled  off  my  heart,  young  man.'  She 
seized  his  hand,  '  Thank  you,  thank  you  ;  go  now  and 
scourge  that  nasty  reprobate.'  She  began  dragging 
Patrick  to  the  door.  'Go.  I  wish  to  be  alone  to  thank 
God  for  this  great  relief.'  She  shook  her  locked  hands 
at  the  ceiling  as  Patrick  left  the  room,  and  cried  in  a 
transport,  *  0  joy  !  joy  !  joy ! ' 


X 

Patrick  turned  the  handle  and  found  the  door  locked. 

*  Who  's  there  ?  '  came  his  brother's  voice,  sharp  and 
irritable. 

*  Open  ;  it 's  me,  Patrick.' 

As  soon  as  the  door  was  opened  his  brother  said  : 

*  What  are  you  doing  here  ?  what  the  deuce '     He 

was  plainly  disconcerted.  He  was  in  slippers,  had  no 
collar  on,  and  was  wearing  a  short  red  jacket.  Between 
two  of  his  fingers  was  a  half-smoked  cigar.  His  face 
was  flushed. 

*  Have  I  to  ask  you  whether  I  may  come  in  ?  Are 
you  master  here,  or  porter,  or  what  ?  ' 

*  Oh  !  come  in  by  all  means.' 

As  soon  as  Patrick  entered,  the  artist  shut  and  locked 
the  door  saying,  '  There  's  a  religious  termagant  down- 
stairs, whose  zeal  nothing  but  a  locked  door  can  repress. 


BARNACLES  147 

She  has  a  vile  red  head.  I  think  she  imagined  I  was 
going  to  seduce  her.  I  would  as  soon  try  to  seduce  the 
Andes.    Sit  down,  man ;  sit  down.' 

Patrick  saw  that  his  brother  was  half  drunk. 

There  was  a  bright  fire  burning,  and  an  easy-chair 
full  in  front  of  it.  On  the  floor  at  hand-reach  was  a 
tumbler  half  fuU  of  whisky. 

*  Sorry ' — the  artist  took  the  chair  in  front  of  the  fire 
— *  there  's  only  one  tumbler.  The  termagant  has  the 
great  seal  upon  everything.  Had  to  sneak  this  one  in. 
The  only  thing  she  '11  give  me  is  water.' 

*  You  've  carried  in  the  whisky,  then  1  ' 

*  It  doesn't  well  up  here,  I  assure  you,  my  good  Pat.' 
'  And  the  cigar  ?  ' 

*  Found  a  box  of  them  here ;  belonged  to  old 
Crawford  ;  as  well  smoke  them  as  let  them  rot.' 

There  was  a  prolonged  silence. 

*  I  wouldn't  call  him  "  old  "  ;  you  've  eaten  his 
bread ;  it 's  not  decent,'  Patrick  said  at  length  in  a 
low  voice. 

*  And  his  salt ;  and  it 's  nothing  to  what  I  '11  eat  yet, 
with  a  woman's  tears  to  season  the  dish.  I  'm  damn 
weU  sick  of  these  Crawfords.  I  'm  like  a  prisoner  in 
this  house  waiting  for  a  reprieve.'  He  leaned  towards  his 
brother.  *  Do  you  know  what  it 's  like  in  Paris  just 
now  ? '  He  flung  the  cigar  in  the  fire.  '  Ah  !  by  God, 
have  I  to  wait  till  eternity  in  this  dungeon  slapping 
paint  on  canvas  ?  ' 

'  What  are  you  talking  about  ?  '  asked  Patrick,  eye- 
ing his  brother  partly  in  curiosity,  partly  in  contempt, 
of  his  condition. 

*  Are  you  curious  to  know  ?  '  said  the  artist  with  a 
comical  air  of  suspicion.    '  One  fallen  god  is  enough  in 


148  BARNACLES 

this  house,  in  this  select  circle;  there  won't  be  a  second. 
Firm  on  a  pedestal  stands  the  brave  and  daring  artist. 
You  are  a  fallen  god,  Patrick,  and  a  fallen  god  is  a 
goose.     Have  a  drink  ;   it  will  warm  your  brains.' 

The  younger  brother  was  gazing  into  the  fire  with  a 
sad,  meditative  look.  It  is  doubtful  if  he  heard  the 
babble  of  his  brother.  Instead  of  replying  to  the  invita* 
tion  he  turned  his  eyes  searchingly  on  his  brother's  face. 

*  Do  you  know  where  I  've  come  from  ?  ' 

*  From  going  up  and  down  in  the  earth  like  Job's  devil.' 
Patrick's  face  showed  that  he  was  wounded.    '  Didn't 

you  miss  me  from  the  digs,  Ganson  ?  ' 

'•Yes,  I  had  visions  of  you  lying  in  the  Clyde.* 

The  younger  brother  smUed. 

'  A  pretty  jest — in  these  last  few  days  a  grave  would 

have  been  welcome.    I  came  out  of  jaU  yesterday, 

Ganson.' 

*  What  in  heaven's  name  have  you  been  up  to  ?  ' 
The  younger  brother  was  again  gazing  at  the  fire. 

*  Do  you  remember,  when  we  were  boys,  we  used  to 
walk  to  church  with  our  mother,'  he  said  in  a  low  voice. 
*  She  's  dead,  Ganson ;  you  know  she  's  dead  ;  are  you 
not  glad  she  is  dead,  seeing  I  have  come  out  of  jail  ? 
Do  you  think  she  sees  us  now  ? '  He  suddenly  stood  up, 
towering  over  his  brother.  '  If  she  were  here  just  now, 
what  would  you  say,  Ganson  ?  man,  what  would  you 
say  if  she  asked  you  how  Patrick  came  to  be  in  jail  ?  ' 

He  suddenly  sat  down  and  put  his  face  in  his  hands. 

There  was  no  answer.  The  fire  crackled  in  the  silence. 
A  struggle  was  going  on  in  the  face  of  the  artist. 

'  Is  this  what  you  've  come  to  because  a  damn  minx 
has  jilted  you  ? '  he  snapped. 

Patrick  looked  up.    '  Let  her  be,'  he  said ;  *  we  're  not 


BARNACLES  149 

fit  to  talk  about  her,  Ganson,  you  or  I — let  us  talk 
about  something  else — you  didn't  know  I  was  in  jail.' 

The  artist  reached  up  to  the  mantelpiece,  to  a  small 
bottle  of  whisky,  and  as  he  poured  some  into  a  tumbler 
he  said  in  an  angry  voice,  '  What  are  you  driving  at  ?  * 

Patrick  gave  him  a  long,  scrutinising  look. 

*  You  and  that  friend  of  yours  were  with  me  in  the 
Arando  ;  what 's  his  name  ?  ' 

*  Baxter.' 

*  Quite  so,  Baxter.  You  were  drinking  port ;  you 
insisted  on  me  drinking  it ;  port  would  do  no  harm. 
I  believed  in  you,  Ganson  ;  we  used  to  go  to  church 
together  with ' 

'  Oh  damn  you,  shut  up  with  that !  It  was  you  who 
began  howling  for  more  booze  ;  began  to  kick  up  the 
devil's  own  shindy  ;  you  wanted  to  fight  me  over  this 
infernal  portrait  business.  I  had  to  make  tracks  to 
save  a  row.  I  told  Baxter  to  get  you  into  a  cab  and 
take  you  to  the  digs.  That 's  all  I  know  ;  that 's  the 
last  I  saw  of  you  till  this  moment ' — he  spoke  with  rising 
anger — '  and  what 's  more,  I  don't  want  to  have  any- 
thing further  to  do  with  your  scrapes.'  He  gulped 
down  the  whisky. 

'  You  needn't  get  angry,  Ganson  ;  I  'm  only  asking 
for  information.' 

*  Well,  you  've  got  it ;  at  least  all  I  can  give  ;  you 
tvill  drink  the  wines  of  France  and  Spain.' 

'  No,  I  will  not ;  never  again.' 

*  Just  as  well.  For  one  thing,  you  can't  carry  your 
liquor  ;  for  another,  remember  our  father — it 's  in  the 
blood ;  and  for  a  third — ^you  get  as  excitable  as  the 
devil.  Pretty  mess  you  made  here  the  night  old 
Crawford  died.    Kicked  up  old  Harry.' 


150  BARNACLES 

*  That 's  enough,'  cried  Patrick,  in  an  angry  voice. 
*  You  've  gone  over  all  that  already — ^there  's  only  one 
thing  I  want  to  speak  about  now — ^I  'm  going  to 
America  ;  will  you  lend  me  some  money  ?  ' 

The  artist  burst  out  laughing. 

*  Money ! ' — his  face  suddenly  sobered — '  America  ! 
I  'd  give  you  the  chinlc  like  a  shot,  Pat,  but  I  'm  living 
on  the  wind.'  He  pondered  a  moment.  '  Try  your  boss,' 

*  No ' — ^Patrick  spoke  decisively — '  he  took  me  out  of 
jail.' 

*  Damn  it  all !  what  did  you  tell  him  that  for  ? ' 

'  I  was  sick,  Ganson,  sick,  sick  at  heart.  He  was 
the  only  one  living  I  could  appeal  to.  Do  you  know, 
Ganson,  the  only  one.'  His  brother's  eyes  boring  mto 
the  artist's  face  made  him,  half  drunk  as  he  was, 
squirm  in  his  chair.  '  When  I  wakened  in  the  morning 
I  didn't  know  where  I  was.  I  was  wakened  by  a  loud 
noise.  Afterwards  I  learned  it  was  your  friend  Baxter. 
He  was  lying  on  his  back  in  the  cell  paddling  and 
kicking  on  the  door  and  screaming  to  be  let  out.  They 
took  him  away  somewhere.  Afterwards  they  came 
to  me  and  brought  me  to  the  office.  I  told  the  lieu- 
tenant all  I  knew — frankly.  I  think  he  was  impressed, 
for  he  asked  me  if  I  had  ever  been  in  jail  before.  You 
have  to  submit  to  such  questions,  Ganson.  He  asked 
me  if  I  had  any  friends.  I  was  ashamed,  Ganson. 
I  could  think  of  no  one  in  all  Glasgow  except  Dr. 
Crawford ;  but  he  is  old ;  it  would  have  grieved  him. 
I  asked  permission  to  use  the  telephone.  I  rang  up 
Mr.  Taylor.  He  came  in  the  evening  along  with  a 
doctor  who  visits  the  prison — ^a  friend  of  his.  Mr. 
Taylor  vouched  for  me  and  paid  some  money  for  my 
liberation.' 


BARNACLES  151 

He  rose  and  stretched  himself. 

*  I  thought  I  might  have  got  my  passage  money 
from  you  to  follow  the  other  broken  men  across.' 

Ganson  also  rose,  his  head  butting  forward. 
'  I  haven't  enough  to  send  you  over  in  a  punt.' 
The  younger  brother  was  gazing  round  the  room. 

*  Where  is  the  portrait,  Ganson  ?  ' 

The  artist  took  the  canvas  from  a  comer  and  held 
it  up.  Then  he  shook  it  fiercely  and  his  face  became 
distorted  with  rage. 

'  I  loathe  it ;  by  God  I  loathe  it !  It  is  like  chains  on 
my  ankles  and  my  wrists.  And  the  subject — ^the  sub- 
ject ;  she  jUted  you,  Pat.     I  could  paint  this  with  her 

blood '  He  was  convulsed  with  passion.   'What  are 

you  looking  at  ? '  he  snarled  at  his  brother  ;  *  it  is  only 
paint.  Do  you  want  it  ?  do  you  think  she  loves  you  ?  ' 
He  flung  the  canvas  down  on  the  chair.  *  Go,  go  to 
America  out  of  my  sight — what  did  you  say  of  our 
mother  ? '  He  raised  his  clenched  fist  and  took  a  step 
towards  his  brother.  *  Who  put  you  in  jail-  ?  was  it  not 
this  beautiful  fiend  ?  '  He  pointed  at  the  canvas.  '  I  '11 
do  for  her  yet  for  causing  my  mother  to  appear  in 
judgment  against  me — do  you  hear  ? — ^it  's  me  she  '11 
marry ' 

*  God  save  her  from  that  fate ! '  answered  Patrick, 
appalled  at  the  revelation  which  his  brother  had  just 
made,  *  and  God  save  you,  Ganson,  from  the  fate  of 
our  father.     If  I  were  you  I  would  give  up  drinking.' 

The  rage  had  ebbed  away  from  the  artist.  He 
stared  moodily  at  his  brother. 

*  Man,  you  're  right ;  there 's  a  lot  at  stake.  I  can 
paint,  paint,  I  tell  you.  Do  you  know  what  Paris  is 
like  just  now  ? '    Patrick  began  to  go  towards  the  door. 


152  BARNACLES 

The  artist  came  towards  him,  staggering  a  little.  '  Some 
day  I  '11  be  there  again,  and  then — do  you  know  what  '11 
happen  ? ' 

Patrick  turned  the  key  in  the  door  and  opened  it. 

'  No,'  he  said  coldly. 

'  Then  I  'U  pay  my  debts  and  old  scores.' 

He  burst  out  laughing  and  pointed  at  the  canvas.  .  .  . 

*  Did  you  chastise  him  ? '  Mrs.  Beezle  was  foUowing 
Patrick  to  the  door.  '  I  do  not  feel  I  am  in  a  Christian 
home  while  he  is  here.  No  temptation,  no  temptation. 
I  've  prayed  for  him.     He  is  robbing  me  of  all  my  time.' 

'  I  thought  he  avoided  you,  Mrs.  Beezle.' 

'  He  wUl  not  face  me ;  no  temptation,  mind  you.' 
Patrick  moved  away  from  her  forefinger.  '  But  he  robs 
me  of  my  time  for  all  that.  Every  morning  and  every 
night  I  count  aU  the  things  in  the  drawing-room  and 
the  dining-room.  I  had  to  write  them  all  down  on 
paper.  Twice  a  day,  young  man,  I  count  them.  I  'm 
responsible  to  my  mistress.  He  is  a  wolf  in  sheep's 
clothing.'  She  pressed  hard  on  Patrick,  who  retreated 
before  her,  lifted  his  hat,  and  said  good-night.  As  he 
went  down  the  steps  she  was  crying  after  him,  '  He  is  as 
proud  as  Satan,  the  reprobate.  My  knees  are  sore  for 
him.     He  robs  me  of  my  time.' 

'  Keep  your  mind  easy,'  answered  Patrick ; '  whatever 
he  does,  he  won't  steal.' 

XI 

Ganson  Normanshire  was  wielding  both  pen  and 
brush — to  some  tune.  His  correspondence  to  Italy 
began  with  a  note  covering  a  miniature  of  Dr.  Crawford. 
His  brother's  behaviour  had  been  a  sore  drag  upon  him. 


BARNACLES  153 

He  was  ashamed  to  have  to  confess  it,  but  he  had  to 
take  Patrick  out  of  jail — oh  !  a  thoughtless  boyish 
prank  ;  nevertheless  it  had  cost  the  writer  many  a 
sleepless  night.  Patrick  had  now  turned  over  a  new 
leaf,  and  was  going  to  America.  There  he  might  mend. 
When  were  they  returning  to  greyer  skies  ?  The 
unfinished  portrait  was  beginning  to  cry  out.  .  .  . 

But  Patrick  was  not  gone  to  America.  If  it  is 
true  that  the  tears  of  the  penitent  are  the  wine  of  the 
angels,  then  the  angels  drank  deeply  from  those  weUs 
of  remorse  in  Patrick  Normanshire.  This  wren  in  a 
wilderness  was  pawning  and  knew  that  tears  are  salt — 
so  salt  that  one  lesson  was  graved  in  lines  of  fire  upon 
his  heart,  a  lesson  common  enough — ^Drink  No  More. 

He  had  received  a  frosty  testimonial  from  his  firm, 
signed  by  Mr.  Taylor,  which,  after  two  months  of  usage, 
had  become  black,  ragged,  and  half  split  across  at  its 
fold. 

In  a  mean  lodging  in  the  south  side  of  Glasgow  he 
looked  back  on  his  adventures  with  this  tattered 
instrument,  and  heard  once  more  door  after  door  in 
the  commercial  quarters  of  the  city  close  upon  him 
with  iron  face.  He  regarded  the  testimonial  with  a 
whimsical  smile. 

*  Looks  now  like  the  black  flag  of  a  pirate  ;  I  ought 
to  go  armed  with  a  gun.  It 's  the  only  way  I  can  force 
a  job,'  he  thought. 

Then  he  took  a  match  and  set  the  testimonial  on  fire. 

'  Bridges  burned,'  he  said  to  the  empty  grate,  '  and 
no  Rubicon  to  cross.' 

And  that  is  worse  than  burning  one's  bridges  on  the 
other  side  of  the  Rubicon,  as  some  at  least  in  the  world 
know. 


154  BARNACLES 

Every  third  night  he  bought  an  evening  paper,  and 
from  its  advertisement  columns  made  a  list  of  the  names 
of  those  in  Glasgow  who  wished  to  hire  the  services  of 
their  feUow  mortals.  He  had  just  completed  such  a 
list  for  to-morrow's  quest,  and  was  now  reading  the 
news  of  a  busy  world,  every  line  of  which  was  a  satire 
upon  his  existence.  One  paragraph  caught  his  eye. 
It  ran  that  Mr.  L.  Ganson  Normanshire  was  exhibiting 
in  the  Fine  Art  Institute  a  portrait  of  Miss  Martha 
Crawford,  daughter  of  the  late  Dr.  Boyd  Crawford,  the 
weU-known  organist.  Mr.  Normanshire  had  studied  in 
Paris.    The  portrait  was  a  vigorous  example  of  his  art. 

The  younger  brother  realised  the  depths  of  his  out- 
lawry as  he  read  the  notice.  He  gazed  at  the  list  of 
commercial  firms  which  he  had  taken  from  the  news- 
paper. It  cried  out  with  burning  tongues — ^lost !  lost ! 
lost !  He  saw  the  picture  on  the  wall,  and  weU-dressed 
people  gazing  at  it.  He  thought  of  his  brother,  and 
of  Martha,  and  groaned.  The  room  became  hideous  ; 
its  silence  and  loneliness  unendurable.  Picking  up  his 
cap  he  went  out  into  the  wilderness  and  walked  steadily 
northwards  untU  he  arrived  at  his  old  rooms  and  asked 
for  his  brother.  The  landlady  kept  him  on  the  stairhead, 
where  he  hung  like  a  weather-beaten  ship  trying  to  make 
a  haven.  His  brother  had  gone.  No  !  he  had  left  no 
address.  A  tall  man  with  a  stoop  came  out  of  a  room. 
He  was  coughing  fitfuUy.  He  saw  Patrick  over  his 
wife's  shoulder,  nodded,  and  disappeared  in  another 
room.  Patrick  remembered  the  cough,  the  saUow  face. 
All  was  unchanged  save  that  the  worldly  little  woman 
who  ruled  the  house  would  not  let  him  in  now,  and  was 
even  impatient  for  him  to  be  gone.  Patrick  saw  this, 
and  thanking  her  for  her  information  turned  away. 


BARNACLES  155 

It  was  raining.  He  stood  in  the  close-mouth  looking 
with  despair  on  the  black  shining  street,  and  the  lights 
glancing  in  the  little  pools.  A  shudder  went  through 
his  frame. 

*  My  God !  '  he  moaned, '  how  has  it  aU  happened  ?  * 

When  he  reached  his  lodgings  he  was  wet  through. 

In  the  afternoon  of  the  following  day  he  received  by 
chance  ninepence  for  carrying  a  bag  from  Queen  Street 
Station  to  St.  Enoch's.  The  man  who  paid  him  said 
he  had  a  good  mind  to  give  nothing,  because  he  had  lost 
his  train  through  Patrick's  dilatoriness.  Yet  Patrick 
had  walked  as  fast  as  he  could.  The  bag  was  heavy  ; 
he  had  had  no  breakfast ;  and  had  been  obliged  to  stop 
frequently  and  shift  it  from  one  shoulder  to  another. 
The  man  at  one  of  these  stoppages  lit  a  cigar  in  the  lee 
of  the  bag. 

He  went  immediately  to  a  place  in  Howard  Street 
and  got  a  cup  of  coffee  and  some  bread  and  butter  for 
threepence.  Thereafter  he  walked  to  the  Fine  Art 
Institute  and  paid  his  last  sixpence  to  see  the  portrait. 

He  searched  room  after  room,  ashamed  to  find  the 
sole  of  one  of  his  boots  flapping  on  the  floor.  At  last 
he  discovered  the  painting  on  the  second  line  in  Room 
No.  3.  He  stood  before  it  and  took  off  his  cap.  It 
was  an  unconscious  act,  as  much  due  to  weariness  as 
to  loyalty. 

The  portrait  showed  a  young  girl,  dressed  in  a  rich 
white  stuff,  clasped  at  the  neck  with  a  brooch  of  gold, 
and  bound  about  with  a  purple  cincture.  There  was  a 
girdle  round  the  brow.  Her  face  glowed  ;  her  eyes 
laughed  ;  there  was  a  cry  of  beauty  from  her  counte- 
nance. 

Patrick,  his  own  face  worn  and  white,  and  standing 


156  BARNACLES 

on  the  frontiers  of  tramp-land,  was  impressed  by  the  art 
of  his  brother.  The  portrait  was  life-like,  skilful,  with 
every  detail  scrupulously  finished.  The  minutes  passed 
and  still  he  gazed  into  the  laughing  eyes,  warming 
himself  at  the  canvas.  Were  they  laughing  ?  Was 
there  not  something  lacking  in  the  face  and  eyes — an 
expression  of  tenderness  and  innocence  which  this  lover 
knew  in  the  original  ?  Anger  began  to  burn  in  him. 
It  was  not  laughter  which  was  in  those  eyes.  It  was 
mockery.  The  blood  mounted  to  Patrick's  head.  The 
face  in  the  portrait,  shadowed  by  the  hair,  had  some- 
thing feverish  in  it — a  fatntness  of  voluptuousness,  as 
if  seen  through  a  veU.  The  longer  he  looked  the  more 
a  feeUng  of  mockery  grew  in  the  eyes  which  he  watched, 
until  they  seemed  to  look  out  upon  him,  jibing,  cruel 
with  exhausted  passion,  and  having  the  knowledge  of 
horrible  secrets  :  subtle  eyes  which  were  laughing  at 
the  desires  of  men. 

*  It 's  a  blasphemy ;  a  blasphemy ;  a  desecration ! '  he 
said  aloud  ;  and  unable  to  endure  the  sight  he  turned 
away. 

*  Here  it  is,  mummy.' 

The  voice  thrOled  his  cold  body  as  if  a  generous 
wine  had  been  poured  through  his  veins. 

She  was  not  more  than  two  yards  from  him — all  in 
black.  At  the  same  time  she  saw  him.  For  a  moment 
they  looked  in  at  one  another's  eyes.  A  spell  bound 
them.  Would  any  power  on  earth  cause  her  to  stretch 
out  her  hand  ?  He  looked  desperately  ill.  Her  heart 
went  out  to  him  in  pity.  His  hand  was  stretched  out, 
and  for  one  tremendous  moment  it  hung  in  the  air — a 
flag  of  surrender — as  these  two  struggled  with  the  unseen 
forces  which  hedge  our  lives.    He  was  swaying  slightly 


BARNACLES  157 

with  physical  exhaustion.  The  girl,  flushed  to  the  eyes, 
was  just  about  to  go  forward  impulsively  and  take  the 
pleading  hand  when  Mrs.  Crawford  came  up.  She 
uttered  an  exclamation  mingled  of  horror  and  of  fear, 
and  put  her  hand  on  the  girl's  arm. 

*  Come  away,  Martha,' 

Even  then  the  secret  influence  which  had  bound  them 
together  in  that  moment  had  not  vanished.  She  hesi- 
tated :  but  glancing  at  her  mother's  shocked  face  she 
felt  as  if  she  had  been  caught  in  a  clandestine  act.  She 
followed  her  mother — not  daring  to  look  behind. 

Patrick  walked  along  Sauchiehall  Street  as  if  he  had 
been  blinded.  He  had  escaped  from  the  Institute  like 
a  man  fleeing  a  dungeon.  The  face  of  the  girl,  suddenly 
flooded  with  shame  as  her  mother  took  her  by  the  arm, 
branded  him  with  a  stigma  which  the  cruelty  of  the 
world  had  been  powerless  to  inflict.  He  was  trying  to 
grope  among  recollections  of  the  past  in  order  to  account 
for  the  fear  which  his  presence  had  aroused  in  Mrs. 
Crawford.  He  summoned  his  Hfe,  as  it  were,  before  an 
unseen  judge,  and  in  a  flood  of  distracting  thought  that 
whirled  his  very  body  along  the  street  he  could  arrive 
at  nothing  stable,  save  the  one  reality  that  they  had 
turned  from  him  as  if  he  were  a  leper.  The  profound 
agitation  which  drove  him  blindly  down  the  stairs  of 
the  Institute  was  ebbing  away,  leaving  strewn  upon  his 
soul  at  its  high-water  mark  a  wreckage  of  pride,  broken 
hope,  and  perished  love.  Something  chivalrous  that 
resides  in  the  heart  of  youth — a  longing  to  worship 
without  any  return — had  died.  His  heart  was  a  garden 
suddenly  withered  on  a  black  frost :  and  looking  out  on 
the  world  he  saw  it  empty  and  loveless  too. 

The  evening  was  come  when  spent   in  body  he 


158  BARNACLES 

reached  his  lodgings.  The  heart  that  had  been  restless 
as  birds  in  spring  are  restless,  and  had  harboured  a 
hundred  doves  of  mystery  from  the  warm  nest  of  a 
girl's  bosom,  was  weary  and  sick  and  mocking  itself. 
He  was  only  a  moth  scorched  at  a  flame,  and  naught 
was  left  but  a  fierce  and  sickening  pain — a  home  that 
would  have  been  holy  and  beautiful  with  her — ^now  his 
naked  feet  were  cold  on  the  floor  of  an  empty  world — 
his  head  was  nodding,  drowsiness  was  creeping  over 
him ;  he  gave  a  lurch  on  the  chair  and  almost  fell. 
He  roused  himself  ;  he  had  been  dreaming ;  he  was 
wet  and  shivering  and. faint  with  hunger.  He  rose  and 
dragged  himself  to  the  bed — when  the  west  wind  gathers 
clouds  from  the  sea — what  was  that,  a  song  of  hers  ? 
yes,  he  remembered  ;  he  had  lost  the  song  ;  he  could 
not  find  it  anywhere ;  she  had  written  asking  for  all 
her  music — a  home  holy  with  her — ^love  is  a  home  where 
wild  flowers  wet  with  dew  aU  bloom — ^but  the  flowers 
were  withered  and  the  door  was  shut  in^e  street — 
he  was  hearing  doors  bang  to  in  his  face  aU  over  Glasgow 
— ^the  west  wind  gathers  clouds  and  the  door  is  shut 
in  the  street — a  deep  sigh  like  that  of  a  tired  child's 
escaped  into  the  gathering  darkness — sleep  in  her 
mercy  had  come  and  was  giving  him  a  dream  of  beUs 
in  his  grey  Argyll  village  by  the  sea,  calling  on  the 
evening  air  across  the  foam — they  were  calling  him 
and  he  went — and  Ganson  and  he  were  walking  to 
church,  one  on  each  side  of  their  mother.  There  was 
a  peaceful  smile  upon  his  haggard  face. 


BARNACLES  159 


xn 

The  easel  had  been  brought  close  to  the  window  of 
the  nursery,  and  together  they  looked  at  the  portrait. 
It  was  the  luminous  face  of  a  dream,  as  if  it  had 
appeared  there  by  magic  with  the  music  of  birds  upon 
its  eyelids  and  the  fragrance  of  youth  upon  its  face. 
It  was  not  a  lovely  face  ;  it  was  the  face  of  love.  Men's 
vows  and  passionate  tears  had  given  that  look  ;  the 
largess  of  the  human  heart  in  its  thrilling  and  melting 
moments  had  made  those  hands.  This  face  had  been 
young  even  in  antiquity,  and  ever  since  had  breathed 
perennial  bliss.  And  over,  and  in  its  eternal  charm, 
faint  as  the  shadow  of  a  flower,  was  the  melody  and 
melancholy  of  passion. 

The  girl  drew  a  deep  breath. 

'  It  is  perfect,'  she  whispered  in  an  awed  tone ;  *  it  is 
like  a  star.' 

These  words  were  her  doom.  For  the  artist,  the 
work  being  finished,  yearned,  with  an  ache  whose  pain 
left  his  very  body  weary,  for  praise  of  this  triumph. 
He  drank  in  the  words,  and  would  have  blessed  even 
the  assassin  of  his  mother  if  in  that  moment  he  had 
spoken  them.  He  turned  sombre  eyes  not  on  this 
girl  but  on  a  being  who  had  spoken  the  true  word  of 
appreciation. 

'  It  is  a  star,  and  my  soul  is  in  darkness ' — pools  of 
light  shone  in  the  depths  of  his  dark  eyes ; — '  it  has 
drained  the  light  from  my  soul.  It  is  finished ' — a  sudden 
change  came  over  his  face ;  there  was  a  storm  of  tears 
in  his  voice ; — '  I  have  spent  the  happiest  hours  of  my 
life  here  painting,  painting.'    His  eyes  were  searching 


160  BARNACLES 

her  face ;  they  were  lookmg  mto  her  very  soul.  '  It  is 
this  face  which  inspired  me.'  He  touched  her  face  with 
his  finger-tips  as  if  it  were  a  flower.  '  I  have  seen  this 
face  in  my  dreams  ;  I  have  seen  it  before  me  in  the 
streets,  in  the  air,  in  the  stars.  It  gave  me  joy,  joy,  joy  1 
There  is  no  joy  like  it.'  He  had  taken  his  fingers  away. 
The  beating  of  her  heart  in  her  side  forced  her  to  press 
her  hand  there.  His  words  were  sending  thrUl  after 
thrill  through  her.  She  knew  not  that  it  was  an  artist 
who  was  speaking  of  the  quest  of  beauty.  '  It  burned 
me,  this  face.  Night  and  day  it  gave  me  no  rest ;  my 
blood  is  in  it.'  His  head  dropped  ;  despair  came  into 
his  eyes ;  he  looked  like  a  man  crushed  under  an 
intolerable  weight.  '  It 's  finished,  it  is  aU  over.  I  have 
no  portrait  to  paint  like  this  any  more.  What  shall  I 
do  when  to-morrow  comes  ? '  His  voice  broke,  hot 
tears  rose  in  his  eyes. 

*  Oh !  don't,  don't  go  away ' — emotion  overcame  her ; 
— *  you  can  paint  another — ^I  will  come  again  to-morrow 
— every  day.' 

He  looked  at  her  hungrily. 

'  Can  you  restore  to  me  the  life  I  had  ?  I  had  life 
here,  life.' 

*  I  will  try,'  she  sobbed  pitifully. 

'  Come,  face  of  aU  the  world,  the  face  I  have  made,' 
he  cried ;  *  do  not  leave  me  or  I  shall  die.' 

His  arms  were  around  her.  She  fell  heavily  against 
him,  half -swooning.  He  took  her  face  in  his  hands  and 
held  it  up  to  the  light,  gazing  in  rapture  on  it.  He 
passed  his  hands  over  it. 

*  It  troubles  me,'  he  groaned. 

He  would  not  kiss  her.  She  was  clinging  to  him  in 
a  frenzy  of  pity  and  of  innocent  shame. 


BARNACLES  161 


*  It  troubles  me — day  and  night ' 

All  at  once  she  burst  into  tears  and  hid  her  face  on  his 
breast.  The  noise  of  her  weeping  brought  him  out  of 
the  spell,  and  he  found  her  lying  on  his  breast.  He 
gazed  at  her  head  for  a  moment  in  wonder  ;  and 
suddenly  a  terrible  look  of  malice  came  into  his  eyes. 
It  cost  him  a  tremendous  effort  to  keep  his  hands  off 
her  throat.  Her  face  was  cold  and  wet  with  tears  as 
he  kissed  her. 

XIII 

From  the  day  of  their  marriage  she  became  the 
victim  of  his  hatred.  He  bluntly  demanded  her 
fortune,  not  because  he  was  fond  of  money,  but 
in  order  to  reduce  her  to  penury.  Amazed  and 
dismayed,  she  told  him  she  was  still  a  minor,  and 
that  her  mother  was  trustee  along  with  a  Mr. 
GilfiHan,  a  banker,  co-opted  thereto  since  the  death 
of  her  father. 

She  soon  recognised  that  her  mother  was  her  only 
shield.  In  the  presence  of  Mrs.  Crawford  he  was 
unswervingly  polite  and  courteous.  On  the  other 
hand,  he  demanded  that  Mrs.  Beezle  be  dismissed. 
When  that  lady  heard  the  news  she  refused  to  go. 
*  He  will  devour  your  substance,  my  lamb,  if  I  go ' ;  and 
she  went  intrepidly  to  the  artist,  pointed  a  stern  fore- 
finger at  him,  and  said  : 

*  I  have  put  it  before  God  on  my  knees,  "  0  dear 
God,  do  guide  me,"  and  I  see  my  way,  young  man.  I 
am  your  enemy;  mark  that,  your  enemy  with  God's 
help.  Do  not  talk  to  me  of  dismissal,  you  reprobate. 
I  am  paid  by  my  mistress.    You  cannot  dismiss  a  fly. 

L 


162  BARNACLES 

I  am  your  enemy.  I  will  defend  my  mistress  with  my 
marrow  and  my  bone.' 

Something  relentlessly  hostile  breathed  from  her 
fiery  face. 

*  By  God ! '  he  snarled,  '  I  will  poison  you  yet.' 

She  flouted  him  with  shrill  laughter  that  made  him 
writhe. 

Yet  there  was  no  concealing  his  evil  courses  from 
Mrs.  Crawford,  for  he  filled  his  table  nightly  with  para- 
sites, before  whom  he  displayed  his  pictures  and  on 
whose  fulsome  adulation  he  battened.  Mrs.  Crawford's 
nervous  affliction  grew.  She  would  start  out  of  her 
chair  at  every  sound  from  the  rooms  below. 

'  It  doesn't  matter  so  long  as  we  are  together, 
mummy,'  and  Mrs.  Normanshire  would  pat  the  hand 
which  was  in  hers.  She  saw  her  mother  pine  away 
beneath  the  growing  bulk  of  her  white  shawl.  Some- 
times she  saw  a  light  on  her  mother's  face  as  if  some- 
thing unearthly,  a  reflection  of  that  world  to  which  she 
was  slowly  going,  were  breaking  out  through  the  flesh. 
Every  time  Martha  saw  this  a  feeling  of  great  joy  and 
profound  sorrow  mingled  in  her  breast,  for  she  witnessed 
her  mother  approaching  rest,  and  leaving  her  alone. 
She  could  not  restrain  herself,  but  weeping  on  her 
mother's  breast,  yearned  for  her  being  to  be  drawn  into 
her  mother's,  that  together  they  might  pass  away  into 
a  priceless  peace.  And  after  she  had  wept  and  raised 
her  head  again,  it  was  to  gaze  at  the  face  whose  beauty 
no  frost  of  age  could  touch,  whose  tenderness  no  fire  of 
suffering  could  quench,  and  was  soothed  in  the  depths 
of  her  soul  by  those  twilight  eyes,  which  seemed  to  be 
looking  back  at  her  upon  earth  from  a  region  of  mysteri- 
ous repose  and  unassailable  calm. 


BARNACLES  168 

XIV 

Mrs.  Beezle,  almost  beside  herself,  informed  the 
policeman  on  the  beat  of  the  nocturnal  orgies. 

'  They  are  not  disturbing  the  lieges,  my  good  woman ; 
I  can't  interfere.  A  man  can  smash  his  own  furniture 
if  he  wants  to,  and  wreck  his  house.  That 's  the  law  of 
the  land.' 

Mrs.  Beezle  clasped  her  hands  under  the  policeman's 
nose,  and  lifted  her  face  to  the  stars  that  look  down  on 
humanity's  unseen  tragedies. 

'  Dear  God,'  she  sobbed,  in  the  intensity  of  her 
anguish,  '  give  me  light  in  this  dark  hour.  Teach  me 
what  to  do.  There  is  no  help  in  this  officer ' ;  and  open- 
ing her  eyes  on  the  astonished  policeman  said,  '  You 
are  only  wearing  your  legs  on  the  pavement.  1  wiU 
interfere,  seeing  you  can't.' 

'  Look  out  that  you  don't  land  yourself  in  for  trouble,' 
he  cautioned. 

*  I  came  for  help,  not  advice,'  she  snapped ;  *  your 
buttons  need  cleamng,'  and  pushing  him  smartly  on 
the  shoulder  she  sheered  away  with  a  list. 

She  went  straight  to  the  room  where  mother  and 
daughter  were,  and  went  on  guard  saying,  '  Here  I  am, 
my  dear,'  in  a  tone  which  also  said,  '  take  courage.' 

She  insisted  on  mother  and  daughter  going  to  bed, 
and  yawned  fiercely  as  the  dragging  hours  went  by, 
and  she  kept  an  alert  eye  on  her  restless  mistress  and 
a  wary  ear  to  the  sounds  from  beneath.  In  intervals 
she  read  from  the  Scriptures,  and  delivered  addresses  to 
phantom  meetings. 

At  last  she  heard  the  sounds  of  drunken  men  leaving 
the  house.     She  waited  till  they  were  gone  and  silence 


164  BARNACLES 

was  restored.  Then  pocketing  her  Bible  she  went 
downstairs  as  quietly  as  a  cat. 

The  dining-room  was  full  of  dregs — cigar  stumps, 
spilled  wine,  broken  crockery  ;  and  straddled  across  an 
arm-chair  the  artist  lay  in  a  drunken  stupor.  She 
seized  him  by  the  hair,  jerked  up  his  head  and  let  it 
faU  again.  This  failed  to  rouse  him.  He  muttered, 
without  opening  his  eyes. 

Mrs.  Beezle  was  satisfied.  Seizing  him  by  the  coUar 
of  his  jacket  she  dragged  him  on  to  the  floor,  stripped 
from  off  him  his  jacket  and  vest,  and  took  off  his  boots 
and  socks.  Putting  her  hands  into  his  arm-pits,  she 
dragged  him  out  of  the  dining-room  and  through  the 
hall  to  the  front  door ;  thence  down  the  steps ;  and 
watching  him  like  a  hawk  lest  he  came  to,  drew  him 
along  the  crescent  avenue  to  where  it  joins  the  street. 
There  she  laid  him  prone  on  the  pavement.  Swiftly 
and  dexterously  she  puUed  off  his  trousers,  left  him  in 
his  shirt,  fled  to  the  house,  locked  the  door,  and  gather- 
ing up  boots,  socks,  and  clothes  along  with  the  trousers, 
reached  the  kitchen,  passed  out,  and  scooping  half  the 
contents  from  the  dust-bin  put  in  the  bundle  and  covered 
it  with  the  rubbish  which  she  had  already  taken  out. 

Then  she  clasped  her  hands  and  raised  them  to  the 
greatly  shining  stars. 

'  0  dear  God,  give  strength  to  my  arm  for  the  sake 
of  my  dear  ones  ;  wilt  Thou  not,  dear  God,  send  rain 
to-night  ? ' 

XV 

He  recovered  himself  in  jail — and  learned  that  the 
charge  was  one  of  being  '  drunk  and  incapable,'  with 
the  added  aggravation  of  having  been  found  in  an 
indecent  condition. 


BARNACLES  165 

He  was  profuse  in  suave  apologies,  and  the  officer  in 
charge  recognised  in  him  a  man  of  culture  who  had 
made  an  indiscretion.  By  payment  of  a  certain  sum 
he  could  be  set  at  liberty. 

He  sent  a  letter  to  Martha  demanding  money  and 
clothes.  It  contained  a  jibe  about  a  former  lover  of 
hers  who  had  been  in  jail. 

Mrs.  Beezle  was  angry. 

*  That  for  him  ;  let  him  fry  in  the  grease  of  the  jail. 
Let  him  drink  there  and  paint  the  walls.' 

But  Martha,  with  the  marks  of  suffering  on  her  face, 
insisted,  and  Mrs.  Beezle  yielded.  Mrs.  Crawford  was 
not  told  what  had  happened. 

Mrs.  Beezle  took  the  money  for  the  fine,  and  on  the 
way  to  the  prison  visited  a  pawnbroker's,  where  she 
bought  a  vile  cast-off  suit  many  sizes  too  large  for  the 
artist,  and  broken  boots  which  were  not  matched.  She 
took  no  socks.  She  invaded  the  police-office  with  the 
bundle,  sheering  in  like  a  frigate,  and  trounced  the 
policeman  in  charge  for  daring  to  set  '  that  reprobate  ' 
at  liberty. 

*  Are  you  his  wife  ?  '  he  asked  in  amazement. 

*  No  temptation,  sir,  no  temptation.  I  am  his 
enemy  ' :  and  she  pushed  the  bundle  across  the  counter 
with  the  handle  of  her  umbrella  ;  '  give  him  that  with 
my  compliments,  and  tell  him  Mrs.  Beezle  will  be 
waiting  for  him  when  he  comes  home.' 

When  Ganson  Normanshire  learned  that  it  was 
*  a  red-haired  woman  with  a  tongue  like  a  bell '  who 
brought  his  clothes,  he  was  wrung  with  rage,  for  he  had 
meant  to  expose  his  wife  to  this  humiliation,  and  also 
to  force  her  to  wait  till  he  accompanied  her  from  the 
prison. 


166  BARNACLES 

When  he  put  on  the  garments  selected  by  the  widow 
Beezle,  he  became  speechless,  and  had  to  suffer  the 
further  mortification  of  an  enforced  stay  in  the  prison 
until  dark,  when  he  slunk  home,  a  sorry  figure. 

Mrs.  Beezle  let  him  in.  He  passed  her  in  glum 
silence,  and  waited  till  she  had  closed  the  door. 

'  It  was  you  brought  this ' — he  lifted  a  comer  of  the 
jacket. 

'  0  dear  God,  help  me  now  ! '  she  cried,  and  faced  him 
saying,  *  It  was,  young  man,  and  good  enough  for  a 
convict.' 

*  I  'm  going  to  make  you  pay,'  he  sobbed  in  rage ; 
*  0,  by  God  !  the  lot  of  you  are  going  to  pay.' 

'  You  've  made  us  pay  already,'  she  shrilled,  '  more 
than  you  're  worth,  you  low  man ;  fourteen  and  six- 
pence I  paid  in  a  pawn.  I  was  never  in  such  a  place 
before — a  dirty  Jew,  a  dirty  shop  ;  that 's  what  I  get 
for  having  anything  to  do  with  scum.  Where  were 
you  brought  up,  you  rascal  ? — in  some  loose  city  like 
Paris.    You  make  me  pay,  mdeed.' 

*  I  will,  I  will,  for  all  you  've  done ;  every  farthing.' 
Tears  of  mortification  were  in  his  eyes. 

She  laughed  loudly  in  his  face  and  pointed  contemptu- 
ously at  him.  *  All  I  've  done,'  she  shrilled  ;  *  you 
don't  know  half.  It  was  me  that  clothed  you  like  a 
scarecrow ;  it  was  me  that  stripped  you  and  dragged 
you  into  the  street.  "  0  dear  God,"  I  said,  "  send  rain 
to-night " ;  and  the  next  night  you  get  dnmk  with  these 
blackguards  I  '11  leave  you  naked — do  you  hear,  you 
reprobate  ? — naked  in  the  rain.'  Her  face  was  in  a 
flame  of  wrath.  It  drew  off  the  heat  of  his  hatred, 
and  left  him  in  a  cold,  deadly  passion. 

'  By  God,'  he  breathed,  '  I  'U  do  for  you ! '      - 


BARNACLES  167 

*  You  will,  you  will ' ;  she  raised  her  clasped  hands, 
'  O  dear  God,  Thou  hast  heard.'  She  closed  her  eyes. 
The  temptation  to  strike  was  overwhelming,  but  some- 
thing in  her  fearless,  suppliant  attitude  paralysed  him. 
Suddenly  she  opened  them.  '  You  have  warned  me,' 
she  cried,  '  that  you  will  murder  me.  I  will  go  this 
very  moment  to  that  policeman  out  there  and  tell  him 
what  you  have  said.  When  I  am  found  dead  there  wiU 
be  no  escape  for  you.'  She  curled  up  her  lip  and 
pointed  at  him.  *  You  will  hang,  young  man.  How 
will  you  like  a  rope  round  your  neck  ? '  She  took  a 
sudden  step  towards  him  and  gave  him  a  violent  push, 
'  Like  that — off  you  will  swing.  I  will  go  and  warn  the 
policeman.' 

Her  action  was  so  abrupt  that  not  till  she  had  whirled 
out  of  the  door  did  his  amazement  give  way  to  chagrin, 
and  this  in  turn  to  black  fury  as  he  ran  towards  the 
stairs,  up  which  he  leapt  two  at  a  time,  and  wrenched 
at  the  handle  of  the  door  of  his  wife's  room.  It  was 
locked. 

*  Let  me  in ! '  he  shouted,  breaking  his  naUs  on  the 
wood. 

There  was  no  answer. 

*  Do  you  hear,  you ,'  he  screamed  an  obscene 

name,  *  open  the  door.' 

At  the  first  shout  Mrs.  Crawford  had  sat  up  in  bed, 
her  body  trembling  violently.     Martha  ran  to  the  bed. 

*  Don't  be  afraid,  mummy,  he  can't  get  in.' 

Blows  and  kicks  rained  on  the  door.  Mrs.  Crawford 
buried  her  face  in  her  hands,  rocking  her  body  and 
moaning.  The  face  of  the  girl  hardened,  and  a  gleam 
as  of  swords  came  into  her  eyes.    She  ran  to  the  door. 

*  Please  go  away,'  she  said. 


168  BARNACLES 

*  Let  me  in — in — ^at  once,'  he  screamed. 

*  I  cannot,'  she  answered. 

The  door  shook  once  more  under  the  kicks.  She 
heard  her  mother  groan,  and  drew  the  bolt  and  stepped 
out,  closing  the  door,  and  putting  her  back  against  it, 
slim  but  fearless  in  defence. 

*  For  mother's  sake,'  she  said. 

Without  speaking  at  all  he  struck  her  on  the  breast, 
on  the  mouth,  on  the  cheek.  The  last  blow  knocked 
her  head  against  the  door.  A  red  weal  stood  out  on 
her  marble  cheek ;  blood  was  trickling  from  her  mouth. 
She  made  no  attempt  to  defend  herself. 

*  0  you  coward ! '  she  said  in  a  low,  steady  voice ; 
*  finish  with  me  quick  and  go  away ;  mother  is  ill  and 
needs  me.'  She  raised  her  head  from  the  door, 
pouring  contempt  upon  him  from  her  eyes.  He 
recoiled  from  her  face  and  began  biting  his  fingers. 

*  Are  you  finished  ?  ' 

He  made  a  hissing  like  that  of  a  trapped  animal 
and  backed  away.  She  remained  erect,  her  hand  on 
the  door  handle,  her  head  high,  harrying  his  retreat  with 
her  eyes.  In  the  middle  of  the  stair  he  turned  round 
and  made  a  gripping  gesture  with  his  hands. 

'  I  'U  drink  your  blood  yet,'  he  said  in  a  low  growl, 
and  slunk  downstairs. 

When  Martha  returned  to  the  room  she  found  her 
mother  lying  sideways  on  the  bed,  unconscious.  She 
had  been  seized  with  a  shock. 

The  artist  was  oblivious  to  the  sounds  of  feet  hurrying 
through  the  house ;  he  was  ignorant  that  the  doctor 
had  come  and  said  there  was  no  hope.  He  was  sitting 
before  a  half-finished  painting  chewing  the  end  of  a 
brush,  a  look  of  despair  on  his  face,  his  impotent  ©yes 


BARNACLES  169 

full  of  tears.  He  had  hurried  to  the  canvas,  his  soul 
famished,  and  was  like  a  marooned  seaman  who  lands 
and  comes  on  water  only  to  find  it  salt.  He  had  tried 
to  paint  and  could  not.  Between  him  and  the  canvas 
floated  a  small  jerking  head,  and  sad  patient  eyes. 

Before  the  night  was  over  he  lay  dead  drunk  at  the 
foot  of  the  easel.  Before  the  night  was  over  the  small 
head  jerked  no  more,  and  the  sad  patient  eyes  were 
closed.  Mrs.  Beezle  was  on  her  knees  praying — she 
knew  not  what — a  cry  for  vengeance  mingled  with 
supplication  for  mercy  and  consolation  and  strength 
for  her  lamb. 

XVI 

Martha  was  like  a  bird  which  has  lost  the  shelter  of 
the  maternal  wing.  She  missed  the  music  of  the  voice, 
the  soothing  hand  on  her  brow,  the  gentl6  presence 
which  had  never  once  failed  of  its  power  to  console 
her  for  all  the  ills  of  life.  Every  day  she  sought  in 
memorials  of  her  dead  mother  some  fresh  witness  of  a 
happiness  that  was  gone  for  ever.  She  continued  to 
do  those  things  which  her  mother  had  loved,  and  thus 
won  a  victory  over  death.  In  this  way  her  mind  was 
inspired  with  the  tenderest  thoughts,  her  grief  was 
made  luminous,  and  her  spirit  gained  a  quiet  fortitude. 

An  additional  support  in  helping  her  to  withstand 
the  rancour  of  her  husband,  which  had  increased  since 
Mrs.  Crawford  died,  was  Mrs.  Beezle,  to  the  thistle  of 
whose  nature  adversity  appeared  to  be  a  congenial 
soil.  The  thistle  had  its  down,  as  witness  the  awkward 
caresses  which  she  lavished  on  the  weeping  orphan. 
Herself  widowed  at  an  early  age,  she  divined  the  in- 


170  BARNACLES 

communicable  pain  of  the  girl,  and  sought  by  every 
means  in  her  power  to  comfort  this  life  ravaged  by 
cruelty  and  maimed  by  death. 

'  It 's  easier  for  us  to  fight  him  now,'  she  would  say 
bravely,  '  when  there  's  just  the  two  of  us.' 

Unaccountably,  after  the  death  of  Mrs.  Crawford 
they  were  left  in  peace.  The  truth  is  that  Ganson 
Normanshire  laboured  unweariedly  at  his  painting, 
and  the  walls  of  the  sombre  house  began  to  glow  with 
landscapes  which  had  the  power  to  soothe  in  a  measure 
even  the  great  sorrow  of  the  girl. 

His  hatred  of  her  increased  as  his  passion  for  painting 
grew.  She  never  once  referred  to  his  pictures,  even 
when  he  came  on  her  standing  before  one  of  them. 
She  would  walk  past  him  then  in  sUence,  with  level 
glance  and  proud  face  shining  out  white  and  still  in  a 
sea  of  pain.  It  tormented  him.  He  thought  that  she, 
who  in  reality  adored  his  work  in  secret,  and  stood  for 
hours  gazing  in  rapture  at  it,  despised  it  all.  Often 
there  was  a  terrific  conflict  in  his  mind,  when  he  burned 
to  go  and  torture  her  and  yet  grudged  the  time  from 
the  easel. 

She  began  to  hope  that  her  suffering  was  in  some 
miraculous  way  at  an  end.  Every  night  on  her  knees 
she  prayed  it  might  be  so,  for  it  was  weeks  since  he  had 
even  spoken  to  her. 

During  these  weeks  he  was  in  an  ecstasy  of  invention, 
and  even  Mrs.  Beezle  was  fain  to  beHeve  that  the 
death  of  Mrs.  Crawford  had  made  a  change  in  the  man. 
They  were  soon  disillusioned,  however,  when  one 
morning  he  brought  to  Martha  the  finished  picture. 

It  showed  a  white  girl,  slim  and  taU,  in  the  glimmer 
of  dawn  with  her  bare  feet  in  the  daisies  fleeing  from  a 


BARNACLES  171 

house  of  terrible  aspect.  She  was  in  the  shadow  of  a 
wood,  and  over  the  tree-tops  a  quiet  moon  was  setting 
in  the  sky.  One  hand  was  pressed  to  her  bosom  as  if 
pain  was  there  ;  her  face  looked  as  if  she  had  been 
crying,  and  there  was  a  stain  of  blood  on  the  daisies 
from  one  of  her  feet.  Away  in  the  dimness  through  the 
thickening  trees  was  the  phantom  form  of  a  knight 
sitting  on  a  white  horse.  There  was  a  marvellous 
threat  of  rain  over  the  trees  ;  the  horseman  was  as 
ghostly  as  the  light  of  eclipse  which  reigned,  and  the 
girl,  sorrowful  in  the  dawn,  was  almost  an  illusion  in 
the  midst  of  the  shadows  of  the  forest. 

In  the  low  right-hand  comer  the  artist,  after  his 
maimer,  had  printed  the  title,  '  The  Escape.' 

He  thrust  it  into  her  hands. 

'  Take  it,'  he  said,  *  I  give  it  to  you.  Night  and 
morning  admire  it.  If  I  cut  off  your  hands  some  day, 
crawl  to  this  painting  and  lift  your  bleeding  stumps 
to  it.  Are  you  dumb  ?  Have  you  nothing  to  say  ? 
You  are  like  your  father,  a  blind  bat,  a  Philistine. 
Do  you  hear ;  I  am  leaving  you  alive  to  look  at  this.' 

Never  once  did  she  take  her  fearless  glance  off  his  face. 

His  voice  broke  in  a  sob. 

*  I  must  have  some  one  to  look  at  it  night  and  day. 
I  hate  you  because  it  is  you.' 

'  Have  you  anything  more  to  say  ? '  she  asked. 

'  Go,'  he  snarled,  '  before  I  strangle  you  ! ' 

When  she  gained  her  room  she  was  terror-stricken, 
and  sat  down  lapsing  into  death. 

In  the  afternoon  he  intercepted  her  as  she  was  about 
to  go  out  on  a  visit  to  the  wife  of  her  trustee,  Mr. 
Gilfillan,  and  commanded  her  to  bring  him  her  wedding 


172  BARNACLES 

dress.  He  had  plainly  been  drinking.  She,  who  had 
long  ceased  to  question  his  actions  or  demands,  went 
for  the  dress,  and  in  stony  silence  delivered  it  up  to 
him  in  the  library.  His  eyes  were  glittering  as  he 
smoothed  its  satin  softness, 

'  You  will  bring  the  painting  down  to  the  dining- 
room  to-night  at  seven,'  he  said ;  '  if  you  cannot  find 
one  word  to  say  for  it,  there  are  others  ' — his  face  grew 
suddenly  black.  '  Do  you  think  I  have  forgotten  what 
you  called  me  ?  "You  little  monkey"  ;  that  was  it; 
"  you  little  monkey  " ;  me,  me.  To  think  that  1  sweated 
in  Paris  for  you  to  torture  me.  By  God  !  but  I  have 
been  patient ;  but  to-night  at  seven ;  you  will  be  there  ; 
and  Pat — he  struck  me  because  of  you.  I  have  borne 
it  aU.  But  to-night  at  seven ;  do  you  hear,  you 
sphinx  ?  this  is  a  night  to  be  merry  ;  Julius  Caesar 
ought  to  be  at  your  side ;  he  would  help  you  to  be  merry ; 
you  were  gone  on  each  other,  eh  ;  but  he  was  poor — 
poor,  you  understand.  Do  you  know  what  poor  is — 
to  be  a  slave,'  he  burst  out  with  passion. 

'  Yes,'  she  answered,  '  I  know  what  it  is  to  be  poor : 
I  know  it  now.' 

'  You  poor  ?  bah  !  haven't  you  a  fortune — ^I  can 
despise  whom  I  like — gold  in  a  box  and  the  key  in  my 
pocket — how  much  is  it — thousands  and  thousands — 
my  teeth  are  watering  day  and  night — thousands  and 
thousands  and  off  to  Paris.' 

She  tried  to  withdraw.  He  was  smelling  of  whisky 
and  was  slavering  horribly.     He  checked  her. 

*  But  teU  me,  would  you  not  like  Julius  Csesar  to  be 
at  the  dinner  ?  ' 

*  Who  is  Julius  Caesar  ? ' 

*  What !    don't  you  know  ?     Ha  !  ha  !  he  was  such 


BARNACLES  178 

a  devil  of  a  fellow  at  school,  our  dear  Pat — cavalry 
charges  and  all  that — Julius  Csesar — he  has  a  grudge 
against  me — thinks  I  led  him  astray  in  drink  and 
landed  him  in  jail.' 

Her  heart  seemed  to  shake  itself  loose  in  her  breast. 
In  a  flash  she  saw  the  truth  which  this  half-drunken 
man  was  babbling, 

'  Was  it  you,'  she  gasped,  *  brought  him  here — the 
night  my  father  died  ?  ' 

'  Am  I  a  decoy  ?  did  I  ever  tell  Pat  you  were  my 
mistress  ? ' — he  licked  his  lips  as  he  recalled  his  foxiness, 
and  rolled  the  remembrance  of  it  like  a  sweet  morsel 
on  the  palate  of  his  mind. 

'  Did  you  tell  him — that  ?  ' — her  face  had  gone  pale 
as  death. 

His  head  butted  forward  as  if  he  would  suck  out  her 
agony  on  his  tongue  like  honey. 

'  Did  I  ever  tell  him  you  were  my  mistress — in  the  quiet 
of  the  studio — did  I  ever  send  him  to  jail — did  he  ever 
come  whining  to  me  for  money  when  he  came  out — what 

a  general — what  a  Roman ! '    He  coughed  over  his 

cigar. 

Her  horror  deepened.  The  terrible  picture  of  the 
past  was  being  filled  in  with  ghastly  clearness  by  a 
pernicious  voice,  a  white  evil  face  and  mocking  eyes. 
Remorse  for  her  blindness  mingled  in  her  breast  with 
a  sense  of  shame.  She  put  her  hands  on  her  eyes  to 
shut  out  the  sight  of  her  husband. 

*  Are  you  crying,  my  pretty  ?  Pooh  !  life  is  too  short 
for  tears.  It  is  weaklings  who  weep  ;  slaves.  Let  us 
eat  and  drmk  ;  let  us  also  be  very  merry.' 

She  plucked  her  hands  away  as  if  fire  in  her  face  had 
stung  them. 


174  BARNACLES 

'  No,  I  'm  not  crying  ;  it 's  impossible.' 

'  Is  it  1 '  he  sneered ;  *  what  of  laughter  then,  what  of 

being  merry  with  Julius  Caesar  at  your  side  to-night  ? 

Money  would  fetch  him.    What  will  you  give  to  bring 

Adonis  to  your  side  ?  ' 

*  The  winds  from  the  West  bring  cool  clouds  from  the  sea.' 

He  began  to  hum  one  of  her  favourite  songs. 

*  My  passion  as  restless  breeds  nothing  but  fears ; 
The  night  brings  her  stars  to  the  breast  of  the  sky ; 
My  love  is  all  barren  with  heartache  and  tears.' 

*You  need  not  sing  more,  I  am  past  tormenting, 
Satan,'  she  answered,  with  a  cold  intensity  of  loathing. 

*  Now  that  is  ungenerous,  my  darling,  to  call  me  Satan 
— me  who  gave  up  a  certain  widow  for  your  dear  sake.' 

Having  flung  his  adultery  in  her  teeth,  he  set  to 
humming  the  song  again.  Her  face  underwent  a 
sudden  change.  In  a  single  moment  it  looked  as  if  it 
had  been  blasted  with  lightning. 

'  Sing  on,'  she  said,  '  it  does  not  hurt,'  and  with  a 
deep  moan,  *  I  am  past  your  hurting  now.' 

His  face  became  contorted. 

*  You  do  not  know  me,'  he  snarled ;  '  tell  me  that 
to-morrow  and  I  will  believe  you.  To-night  I  bring 
the  cream  of  mankind  to  your  feet,  and  among  them,* 
he  sniggered  and  lisped,  *  a  certain  widow.  You  will 
grace  the  board.' 

She  turned  cold  to  the  very  heart.  She  was  in  a 
region  of  nightmare,  living  out  those  terrific  moments 
confronted  by  a  squat  figure  that  was  the  incarnation 
of  evil.  An  hour  ago  she  would  have  welcomed  death  ; 
but  now  she  had  to  find  his  brother  and  kneel  at  his 
feet.    If  only  she  could  escape.     She  forgot  her  shame, 


BARNACLES  175 

her  humiliation,  her  trampled  wifehood ;  she  was 
terribly  afraid  ;  she  felt  he  might  come  at  any  moment 
— ^this  little,  sly,  leering,  loathsome  figure,  and  smilingly 
put  his  clammy  hands  round  her  throat.  She  felt  with 
extraordinary  intensity  and  clarity  that  her  life  was 
in  danger.  Something  prophetic,  vivid,  fuU  of  agony 
warned  her  that  he  was  ready  to  stamp  upon  her.  If 
she  moved  he  would  spring  at  her.  She  tried  to  whisper 
a  little  prayer  to  God  for  help. 

And  he  made  a  movement.  In  a  dead  silence  he  arose. 
She  saw  him  like  a  figure  in  a  dream  stepping  with 
feline  tread.     She  tried  to  scream  and  closed  her  eyes. 

'  Look  at  it,  by  God,  look !  ' — his  voice  was  surcharged 
with  sobs.  She  opened  her  eyes.  He  had  lifted  her 
portrait  on  to  the  easel  and  was  pointing  at  it.  It  was 
mutilated.  The  white  Greek  gown  was  painted  scarlet ; 
a  snake  was  writhing  about  the  feet ;  one  eye  was 
gouged  out.    Sick  with  horror,  she  could  look  no  more. 

*  It  was  you  who  forced  me  to  do  this.'  His  face  was 
working  convulsively  ;  his  eyes,  fuU  of  tears,  were 
flashing  with  rage.  '  You — you — ^you  caUed  me  a  little 
monkey.     I  'm  going  to  put  your  life-blood  here.' 

One  patch  of  the  robe  over  the  heart  was  white.  He 
laid  his  forefinger  on  the  spot.  '  I  have  reserved  it  for 
the  blood  of  your  heart.  If  only  I  could  get  your 
father's  to  mingle  with  it.  He  was  a  Philistine,  a  snob, 
a  demi-semi-quaver  crotchet.  He  gave  away  one  of 
my  paintings — ^the  dog.  He  talked  to  me — me  of 
Beethoven,  and  didn't  know  he  was  talking  to  a  genius  ' 
— his  breath  was  coming  in  jerking  little  sobs — '  he 
died  too  soon  ;  but  I  will  have  your  life.  I  will  have  no 
peace  on  earth  or  in  hell  if  not.  Look  at  it,'  he  moaned, 
pointing  to  the   portrait,   *  my  darling,  my   ravish- 


176  BARNACLES 

ing  dream.  It  has  made  me  mad ;  you  made  me  do 
it — ^you — ^you — with  your  divine  face ' ;  he  was  now 
advancing  towards  her.  She  felt  she  was  about  to  die 
at  last.  Again  she  closed  her  eyes — would  he  never, 
never  come  and  be  done  with  it.  She  could  hear  his 
breathing — feel  it  on  her  face. 

'  Take  my  life,'  she  moaned,  and  opened  her  eyes,  and 
looked  into  his  close  to  her  own,  blazing  with  a  fierce 
light.  He  raised  his  hand.  Darkness  gathered  about 
her.     An  eternity  passed  and  still  the  blow  did  not  fall. 

*  No,  no,  not  yet,'  she  heard  him  groan,  '  it  would  be 
too  cheap,'  and  he  breathed  on  her  face,  '  dinner  at 
seven.' 

She  could  endure  no  more. 

*  May — I  go — now  ?  ' 

*  Don't  try  to  leave  the  house — ^I  '11  be  on  watch.' 
She  could  hardly  walk.     Twice  she  rested  on  the 

stair  as  she  climbed,  conscious  that  he  was  watching 
her.  When  she  reached  her  room  she  had  not  the 
strength  to  lock  the  door. 

*  0  God ! '  she  moaned,  as  she  fell  across  the  bed, '  let 
me  die  before  the  night  comes.' 


XVII 

Her  fingers  were  so  numb  that  she  could  not  fasten 
her  clothes,  and  she  was  forced  to  ring  for  Mrs.  Beezle, 
into  whose  arms  she  sank  moaning  : 

'  O  dear  God,  I  wish  I  were  dead.' 

Mrs.  Beezle  attempting  to  soothe  her  began  to 
undress  her. 

*  You  must  go  to  bed,  my  poor  lamb,  you  are  ill.' 


BARNACLES  177 

*  Oh  !  don't,  don't !  I  must  go  down — he  '11  come 
and  drag  me — he  '11  kill  me.' 

For  the  first  time  in  her  life  Mrs.  Beezle  was  alarmed 
— ^not  because  of  the  artist  whom  she  despised,  but  at 
the  condition  of  her  young  mistress. 

*  Kill  you,'  she  whispered  fiercely,  '  let  him  try.  Go 
down  ;  yes,  it 's  the  best  way.  Remember  I  'm  in  the 
library.  Sit  among  them  like  a  stooky.  That 's  the 
way  to  fight  the  scum.  Don't  open  your  mouth,  my 
lamb.  Sit  watching  them  like  a  kirk-steeple  watching 
a  street.  Kill  you  indeed  ;  remember  I  'm  in  the 
library.' 

'  It 's  not  them  I  'm  afraid  of,'  she  sobbed,  *  it 's 
him — ^to-night — when  they  go  away.' 
Mrs.  Beezle  laughed  shrilly. 

*  Him.  I  '11  drag  him  into  the  street  and  leave  him 
without  a  shirt.    "  Dear  God,  I  thank  you  it 's  raining." ' 

'  You  could  never  do  that,'  she  said,  her  eyes  full  of 
amazement. 

The  widow  Beezle  laughed  again. 

*  That 's  a  trifle.  I  feel  exalted  ;  I  hope  for  pneu- 
monia when  he  's  lying  in  the  rain.  Come,'  she  took 
the  girl's  arm, '  1  will  go  down  with  you.  He 's  afraid 
of  me.     Let  him  beware.' 

Martha  took  the  picture,  and  with  her  courage 
strangely  mounting  left  the  room.  On  the  stair-head 
she  whispered : 

*  You  '11  not  leave  me.' 

Mrs.  Beezle  put  her  arms  around  the  girl. 

'  Have  no  fear,  my  lamb  ;  the  moment  they  are  all 
gone  I  will  be  at  your  side.  He  's  afraid  of  me. 
He  's  only  a  louse.' 

She  lay  in  the  comforting  embrace,  loath  to  leave  the 

M 


178  BARNACLES 

protecting  breast.     The  canvas  fell  out  of  her  hand. 
She  made  a  movement  to  pick  it  up. 

*  What 's  this,'  said  Mrs.  Beezle ;  '  one  of  his  nasty 
pictures  ? ' 

*  He  wants  it.' 

Mrs.  Beezle  took  it  out  of  the  girl's  hand,  and 
together  they  went  down  the  stair. 

Ganson  Normanshire  was  in  the  hall. 

'  See,  he  's  watching,'  Martha  whispered. 

'  Let  him,  let  him ' 

Before  she  had  time  to  say  more  he  came  forward 
with  a  mock  bow. 

*  The  company  is  gathered  ;  we  are  waiting/ 

*  I  am  ready,'  she  answered,  and  looked  at  him  with- 
out a  tremor. 

'  Remember,  like  a  stooky,'  said  Mrs.  Beezle  loudly, 

*  like  a  steeple  among  the  ungodly.' 

Ganson  Normanshire  turned  to  her. 

*  So  good  of  you,  red-haired  lady,  to  bring  the  picture. 
Is  it  not  exquisite  ?  '   he  held  out  his  hand. 

She  shot  a  finger  at  him. 

'  It  is  not  for  you,  you  blackguard.  I  am  going  to 
keep  this  ' — she  shook  the  canvas. 

He  made  a  dart  at  it.     Mrs.  Beezle  swung  it  aloft. 

*  Stand  back,  you  low  man,  or  I  '11  break  it  over  your 
head.' 

The  artist's  body  began  to  tremble. 

*  For  God's  sake  be  careful,'  he  screamed. 

*  No,  but  you  be  careful ;  I  'm  going  to  keep  this 
idol,  and  if  you  dare  touch  a  hair  of  her  head  I  '11 
break  it  over  my  knee.' 

*  Give  it  to  me,'  he  whined ;  '  I  've  promised  to  show 
it  to  them.' 


BARNACLES  179 

*  Show  them  your  whisky  bottles,'  she  snapped  ;  *  it 
will  please  them  better.' 

'  I  promise,'  said  the  artist,  advancing  to  her  with 
a  cat-like  movement,  '  nothing  wlU  happen  to  her.' 

'  No  further,'  cried  Mrs.  Beezle,  heaving  the  canvas 
aloft  once  more. 

The  artist  stopped  and  glowered  at  her. 

*  But  I  told  them  ' ;  tears  were  in  his  eyes. 

*  Amuse  them  with  whisky,  I  tell  you.  I  'm  going 
to  keep  this,'  she  shook  it  at  his  face,  '  and  I  'm  going 
out  to  warn  the  policeman.  If  anything  happens  to 
my  mistress,  remember,  you  reprobate,  the  rope  is 
waiting  for  you.' 

She  walked  to  the  library.  At  its  threshold  she 
stopped  and  shrilled  : 

*  I  will  wait  here  all  the  night  with  this  nasty  picture. 
As  soon  as  your  drunken  crew  go  home,  I  will  come 
for  my  mistress ' ;  her  voice  softened,  '  go,  my  lamb  ; 
remember  I  am  here.' 

Martha  went  into  the  dining-room  with  her  heart 
full  of  courage.  She  had  learned  how  vulnerable  was 
her  husband. 

XVIII 

The  room  was  full  of  men  and  women,  mostly  young 
and  in  evening  dress.  Immediately  the  artist  entered 
he  shouted  '  Jubilee.' 

*  Right  0,  totty,'  some  one  answered.  The  next 
moment  a  coarse  stout  woman  of  some  thirty  years, 
with  saucer  eyes,  a  double  chin,  and  pendulous  cheeks 
thick  with  paint,  came  up  to  Martha  and  her  husband. 
She  was  wearing  the  wedding  dress. 


180  BARNACLES 

*  Let  me  present  to  you,  my  dear  wife,'  he  said,  *  a 
certain  widow,  the  best  dressed  woman  in  Glasgow.' 

The  creature  smirked  and  held  out  her  hand,  saying, 
*  Glad  to  meet  you,  Mrs.  Normanshire.' 

Martha  met  the  woman's  eye  with  contempt,  put  her 
hands  behind  her  back,  and  facing  her  husband,  said 
coldly,  '  You  are  not  an  artist  after  all ;  you  have 
forgotten  the  orange  blossoms.' 

And  immediately  she  walked  to  the  foot  of  the  table 
and  sat  down. 

The  artist  followed  her,  and  putting  his  mouth  to 
her  ear  said,  '  I  wiU  cut  out  your  heart  for  this.' 

She  smiled  at  him  and  answered  :  '  I  think  we  had 
better  have  dinner.' 

She  did  not  know  how  the  terrible  evening  passed. 
She  was  only  conscious  that  the  jewelled  fingers  of 
those  loose  women  were  like  spears  of  fire  in  her  heart, 
but  that  the  moment  of  death  had  passed  when  she 
had  found  courage  to  ignore  the  woman  who  was- 
wearing  her  wedding  dress. 

Her  husband  taunted  her  down  the  length  of  the 
table  with  elaborate  jibes.  Those  on  either  hand  were 
nauseous  in  their  attempts  to  outdo  one  another  in 
cleverness  and  wit.  For  a  little  they  kept  themselves 
in  hand ;  but  the  language  grew  more  and  more  un- 
measured and  their  conduct  infamous.  Among  the 
wine  they  were  like  toads  croaking  in  a  marsh.  Argu- 
ment, stories,  theatrical  talk,  inane  laughter  were  all 
punctuated  by  the  plunking  of  corks,  the  striking  of 
matches.     The  women  were  smoking  cigarettes. 

The  artist  was  parsimonious  of  his  drink.  The  sight 
of  his  face,  like  a  cold  pallid  mask  appearing  out  of 
clouds  of  tobacco  smoke,  froze  her  heart.     She  knew 


BARNACLES  181 

that  his  eyes  were  glittering  upon  her  with  hawk-like 
narrowness.  Did  he  mean  to  murder  her  to-night  ? 
A  phrase  of  his  came  back  to  her,  '  I  will  drink  your 
blood ' ;  and  her  heart  became  parched  with  terror. 
Mrs.  Beezle  seemed  to  be  miles  away.  She  wondered 
if  he  was  mad. 

Suddenly  he  jumped  to  his  feet. 

'  Ladies  and  gentlemen,'  he  cried,  *  my  dear  wife  had 
an  expensive  musical  training  in  Germany ;  she  will 
now  condescend  to  display  her  divine  art  on  the  piano.' 

This  was  greeted  with  laughter  and  clapping  of 
hands.  When  he  sat  down  'the  widow'  leaned  over 
and  whispered  in  his  ear.     He  burst  out  laughing. 

Martha  rose  quietly  to  her  feet,  but  in  spite  of  her 
effort  she  sank  half  fainting  on  the  piano-stool.  Her 
fingers  were  moving  blindly  on  the  keys ;  she  was  not 
playing ;  she  was  beating  on  the  gate  of  heaven  for  mercy. 

And  then  she  was  conscious  of  his  voice  at  her  ear : 

•  The  winds  of  the  West  bring  clouds  from  the  sea.' 

'  Sing  it.' 

'  I  can't,'  she  said,  looking  straight  in  front  of  her. 
She  was  trying  to  pluck  out  the  keys  of  the  piano. 

'  You  can't !     By  God,  it 's  him  you  love  ! ' 

Beaten  almost  to  death  as  she  was,  she  realised  in  a 
terrible  flash  that  he  was  jealous.  He  was  making  the 
same  hissing  noise  which  he  had  made  on  the  landing 
outside  her  mother's  room.  It  was  like  that  of  an  angry 
snake. 

'  Play  it,  sing  it,'  he  hissed,  *  or  by  heaven  I  '11  strangle 
you!' 

By  instinct  she  looked  up  over  the  piano,  as  if  his 
spirit  had  attracted  her,  and  saw  the  portrait  of  Edwin 


182  BARNACLES 

Sangster.  He  seemed  to  be  gazing  at  her  as  if  in  the 
flesh,  his  leonine  head  and  rugged  face  full  of  strength. 
The  look  of  his  steadfast  eye  passed  like  iron  into  her 
blood.  Her  faintness  passed  away ;  she  stood  up 
steady  as  a  rock,  smiled  at  her  husband,  and  said  in 
a  loud,  clear  voice : 

'  This  creature  threatens  to  strangle  me  if  I  won't 
sing  a  certain  song  ;  I  refuse  ;  do  it  now  ;  strangle 
me.'  Her  eyes  were  blasting  him  with  contempt. 
Before  he  could  say  or  do  anything  a  voice  drawled, 
*  Fair  do,  Normanshire  ;   play  the  game.' 

He  wheeled,  the  black  blood  surging  in  his  face. 

'  What  the  heU  are  you  interfering  for  ?  ' 

The  widow  in  the  wedding  dress  shouted,  '  Hit  him, 
Ganson  ;  coming  between  a  fellow  and  his  wife ' :  and 
she  guffawed. 

The  artist  walked  up  to  her  with  a  slow,  measured 
step.     He  could  hardly  speak. 

'  You — ^you — ^put  it  off — that  dress — by  God ! ' 

His  two  hands  shot  out,  seized  the  neckband  and 
ripped  open  the  bodice.  The  flap  hung  down  like 
chastity  torn,  exposing  the  woman's  breasts.  A  tall 
young  man  with  fair  hair  jumped  up  and  struck  the 
artist  full  on  the  jaw  with  a  fist  in  which  was  clenched 
a  half-smoked  cigar.  The  pain  of  the  bum  appeared 
to  madden  him,  for  he  leapt  forward  and  clinched  with 
the  artist.  The  two  of  them  swayed  drunkenly  in  the 
space  between  the  table  and  the  piano.  Chairs  were 
overturned.  They  reeled  against  the  table,  smashing 
the  glass.  Martha,  gathering  her  skirt  in  her  hand, 
turned  to  the  right  of  the  table,  and  collided  with  a 
little  dark-haired  girl,  who  whispered, '  Run,  run.'  She 
gathered  herself  together  with  a  little  sob  and  darted 


BARNACLES  188 

for  the  door.  Out  through  the  hall  she  ran  and  through 
the  front  door,  unconscious  of  the  rain.  On  she  ran, 
stumbling,  panting,  imagiriing  she  heard  footsteps 
behind  her.  When  she  reached  Woodlands  Terrace 
she  came  to  a  dead  halt.  At  the  foot  of  this  short 
street  the  glare  and  traffic  of  Sauchiehall  Street  burst 
upon  her  and  made  her  realise  her  condition — hatless, 
in  evening  dress,  with  white  satin  shoes.  She  was 
soaked  with  rain.  She  had  no  money  ;  the  fear  of 
what  was  behind  her  drove  her  on  again.  When  she 
had  reached  quarter  way  down  the  street,  she  noticed 
a  little  man  in  a  tall  hat  approaching.  Ashamed  of  her 
condition,  she  retreated  to  the  comer,  but  afraid  of 
going  back  farther  came  to  a  halt.  The  little  man, 
humming  beneath  an  umbrella,  ran  into  her. 

*  My  stars ! '  he  said,  shutting  the  umbrella.  The 
next  moment  he  opened  it,  and  promptly  put  it  over 
her  head.  He  had  a  grey  beard,  a  fresh-coloured  face, 
and  wore  glasses.  Despite  that  he  was  not  tall  he 
stooped  a  little. 

'  My  lassie,'  he  said,  '  what  is  wrong  ?  ' 

*  I  have  escaped,'  said  Martha,  her  whole  body 
trembling. 

He  gazed  at  the  beautiful  tear-stained  face,  yet 
marked  with  the  traces  of  terror,  and  noted  her  glance 
of  fear  over  her  shoulder. 

'  My  name  is  YuUle — Lothian  Yuille  ;  perhaps  you 
may  have  heard  of  me.  If  not,  I  am  a  professor  at  the 
University.  I  live  three  doors  along.  Will  you  come 
to  my  house  out  of  the  rain  ? '  His  old-world  courtesy 
and  paternal  benevolence  surrounded  her  with  a  warm 
atmosphere,  and  opened  the  fountain  of  tears  long 
parched  with  dread. 


184  BARNACLES 

'  0  !  0  !  0  !  '  she  sobbed,  clinging  to  him  and  allow- 
ing her  dress  to  fall  on  the  wet  pavement.  '  Take  me 
with  you — don't  let  him  take  me — he  '11  murder  me ! ' 

He  patted  her  on  the  arm. 

'  Don't  be  afraid ' — he  began  to  walk  slowly,  still 
patting  her — '  don't  be  afraid,  my  lassie.  You  will  be 
as  safe  in  my  house  as  in  heaven — 1  wish  my  students 
could  see  old  Yuille  now,  with  a  bonnie  girl  on  his  arm, 
the  young  cubs.' 

He  felt  her  twitching  all  over  with  nervous  spasm  as 
she  clung  to  him  on  his  own  doorstep. 

The  professor  lived  alone  with  a  housekeeper,  a  tall, 
thin  woman,  with  high  cheek  bones,  large  eyes,  and 
dark  hair. 

'  Phemie,'  he  said,  *  put  a  fire  in  the  middle  front 
bedroom  and  a  hot-water  bottle  in  the  bed  ;  but  first 
of  all  make  a  big  bowl  of  gruel.' 

*  Yes,  sir,'  and  Phemie  hurried  away. 

The  professor  led  Martha  into  a  room  on  the  right, 
whose  walls  were  completely  lined  with  books.  There 
was  a  good  deal  of  curious  apparatus  about.  He  drew 
an  easy  chair  to  the  fire  and  made  her  sit  down. 

*  You  will  sleep  in  my  house  to-night,'  he  said,  in 
a  way  of  abrupt  speech,  which  appeared  to  be  char- 
acteristic. 

*  Oh  !  please,  please,  yes.' 

She  was  shivering  violently.  Her  face  was  like 
clay. 

The  professor  left  the  room.  Presently  he  returned 
with  a  wine  glass  in  his  hand. 

*  My  lassie,  you  are  under  the  care  of  a  professor  in 
the  faculty  of  medicine,  and  he  orders  you  to  drink 
this  good  Burgundy  to  the  last  drop.' 


BARNACLES  185 

She  drank  with  shrinking  obedience,  timidly  recognis- 
ing that  he  was  very  shaggy  in  the  full  light. 

*  Put  off  these  shoes  and  stockings  :  yes,  yes,  I  'm 
old  enough  to  be  your  grandfather  nearly  ;  stockings 
as  well ;  and  you  'U  wear  a  pair  of  slippers  belonging 
to  a  professor.  While  I  fetch  them  you  do  as  you  are 
told.' 

If  his  head  were  a  little  whiter  it  would  be  like  her 
father's.  She  looked  up  at  him  to  signify  her  obedience, 
and  caught  a  pair  of  twinkling  eyes.  '  1  've  a  good 
mind  to  wait  and  see  a  pretty  ankle,'  he  said,  and  trotted 
from  the  room.  When  he  returned  with  the  slippers 
he  knelt  at  her  feet  and  put  them  on. 

'  That  little  foot,'  he  said  gallantly,  '  has  no  business 
getting  wet  a  night  like  this.  No,  no,'  he  held  up  his 
hand  as  she  attempted  to  speak,  '  not  one  word  to- 
night, except  your  prayers.'  He  stood  up.  'My stars! 
I  haven't  my  overcoat  off  yet ;  we  must  get  to  bed. 
If  I  sleep  in  in  the  morning  these  young  cubs  of  mine 
will  rag  the  life  out  of  me — old  YuiUe  was  on  the  spree 
last  night — think  I  don't  know  what  they  say ' 

At  this  juncture  Phemie  announced  that  the  room 
was  ready. 

'  Phemie,'  he  said  severely,  '  you  'U  give  my  young 
lady  not  your  prettiest  but  your  warmest  nightdress. 
Now  be  off  ' — he  shooed  Martha  with  hands  and  voice, 
and  followed  to  the  door — '  if  you  leave  as  much  as 
one  drop  in  the  very  big  bowl  of  gruel,  you  'U  get 
castor-oil.     You  hear.' 

Her  heart  filled,  and  she  saw  the  shaggy  grey  head 
through  swimming  tears. 

*  And  when  you  've  drank  the  vast  bowl,  Phemie 
wiU  give  you  a  wee  white  powder  in  water  which  I  will 


186  BARNACLES 

go  and  find.  You  will  drink  it  also  to  the  last  drop. 
You  hear.' 

'  I  will  be  very  obedient ' ;  her  voice  broke. 

'  And  then,  miss,  you  '11  say  your  prayers,  not  forget- 
ting a  petition  for  old  Yuille  the  professor,  and  close 
your  eyes  and  go  ba  ba.' 

He  took  a  quick  step  towards  her  and  held  out  his 
hand.  '  Good  night,  my  lassie,'  he  said ;  '  have  no 
fear,  you  're  safe.' 

The  events  of  that  long  ten'ible  day  had  not  the 
power  to  break  her  down  which  this  man's  kindness 
possessed.     She  began  to  cry  softly. 

*  Tut,  tut,'  said  the  professor,  *  a  bonnie-like  doctor 
I  am  forgetting  to  teU  you  that  you  will  not  rise  to- 
morrow tiU  I  see  you.  I  'U  be  back  from  teaching  my 
cubs  at  lunch-time.  Good  night,'  he  was  still  holding 
her  hand,  '  good  night,  a  sound  sleep.' 

He  returned  to  the  fire,  to  the  chair  she  had  been  sit- 
ting on,  picked  up  one  of  her  shoes  and  stared  at  it.  .  .  . 
For  a  man  afraid  of  sleeping  in,  he  continued  gazing  at 
the  fire  a  long  time,  with  the  shoe  in  his  hand.  .  .  . 

The  next  day  the  widow  Beezle,  summoned  by 
Phemie,  was  running  up  the  stairs  shouting,  '  0  God, 
dear  God,  dear  God,  I  thank  you,  I  thank  you,  I  have 
found  my  lamb ! '  When  she  entered  the  room  and 
saw  Martha  in  bed  she  threw  up  her  hands,  '  0  joy, 
Joy>  joy  '  ^  d^^r  God,  this  is  heaven ! '  and  she  fell 
on  Martha  and  weUnigh  smothered  her,  mmgling  a 
hundred  words  of  tenderness  with  such  phrases  as 
'  reprobate,'  '  black  eye ' — *  tried  to  strip  him  and  drag 
him  out — wakened  ;  defended  myself  with  a  poker ' — 
till  Martha  was  crying  and  laughing  in  one  breath. 

Then  the  banker  was  spoken  to  by  telephone,  and 


BARNACLES  187 

invited  to  dinner  by  the  professor,  who  said  he  had 
discovered  one  of  his  gilt-edged  securities  last  night 
lost  in  the  rain.  When  Mr.  Gilfillan  arrived  his 
astonished  gaze  encountered  Mrs.  Beezle  in  aU  the 
splendour  of  Phemie  the  housekeeper's  best  clothes. 
The  professor  came  forward  with  Martha. 

'  You  'U  take  in  this  lady,  Mr.  Gilfillan,'  said  the 
professor,  laying  his  hand  on  Mrs.  Beezle's  arm. 
'  You  've  had  the  good  fortune  to  know  Mrs.  Norman- 
shire  for  many  a  long  day.  As  I  haven't,  I  'U  make  the 
most  of  my  opportunities  in  helping  myseK  to  youth 
and  beauty.'  He  made  a  deep  bow,  wagging  his  grey 
beard,  and  offered  his  arm  to  Martha. 

After  dinner  the  professor  and  the  banker  had  a 
consultation,  in  the  course  of  which  the  professor 
learned  the  outlines  of  the  life  of  his  temporary  ward. 

*  If  you  weren't  trustee  I  would  take  her  for  a 
daughter,'  said  the  professor. 

*  And  being  trustee,  sir  ?  '  interrogated  Mr.  Gilfillan. 

*  You  will  take  her  for  your  daughter.' 

*  And  him  ?  '  asked  the  banker. 

*  Leave  him,'  was  the  grim  answer,  *  to  the  world, 
the  flesh,  and  the  devU.     They  '11  finish  him.' 

'  I  'm  afraid  he  wUl  make  trouble.' 

*  Where  do  you  live  ? '  said  the  professor,  by  way  of 
answer. 

*  At  Paisley.' 

*  Ah  !  well !  let  him  find  her  first.  Afterwards,  if  you 
will  honour  me  by  letting  me  know,  I  will  deal  with  him ' 
— the  shaggy  eyebrows  gathered  together  in  a  frown. 

'  I  wiU  do  it,'  said  the  banker,  and  added,  '  to- 
morrow our  house  will  no  longer  be  empty.' 
For  his  son  was  shot  leading  on  his  men  in  the  Boer 


188  BARNACLES 

War  ;  and  his  daughter — ^well,  his  son  when  at  Oxford 
brought  home  to  Paisley  a  college  friend  from  New 
Zealand.  His  daughter  was  there  now,  and  had  sent 
home  the  photograph  of  a  baby. 

'  And  mine/  answered  the  professor,  *  will  be  gey 
an'  empty  to-morrow.  I  could  keep  her,  Mr.  GilfiUan, 
with  all  my  heart.' 

And  this  conviction  deepened  in  him  to  a  sense  of 
great  loss,  when  later  he  sat  in  the  drawing-room  and 
Martha  played  and  sang. 

*  Man,'  said  the  professor,  as  the  banker  stood  on  his 
doorstep,  '  it 's  an  angel  with  the  voice  of  a  bird  you  're 
bringing  into  your  home.  Mind  you,'  he  urged, '  you  '11 
bring  her  to  see  me  now  and  again  ;  and  I  '11  come  and 
see  her  every  Sunday  I  'm  no'  healing  the  sick.' 

So  these  two  became  fast  friends  for  life.  .  .  . 

In  two  months  Martha  attained  her  majority.  In  six 
she  had  bought  a  house  next  but  one  to  Mr.  Gilfillan's 
at  Castlehead,  Paisley.  Every  week  she  visited  her 
parents'  grave,  and  every  week  she  laid  a  wreath  on 
the  grave  of  her  grandfather,  Edwin  Sangster,  who 
slept  with  his  own  folk  near  Paisley.  Sometimes  she 
wondered  how  strangely  fate  had  led  her  to  come  and 
live  where  her  grandfather's  folk  had  been  born  and 
lived  and  where  they  were  buried.  Indeed  she  said 
this  to  Barnacles.  And  he  told  her  how  our  vagrant 
footsteps  are  guided.  '  We  think  we  are  waifs,'  he 
said,  '  but  our  wanderings  are  as  sure  as  the  stars. 
We  shall  come  to  our  appointed  place,  to  our  destined 
end.'     And  he  also  told  her  of  the  Odyssey  of  a  sheep. 

*  And  I  saw  you  bury  a  baby  when  I  was  going  to 
grandfather's  grave,'  she  said. 

They  sat  together  in  a  long  silence. 


BARNACLES  189 

*  My  footsteps  came  to  the  grave  of  a  baby,'  he 
answered,  '  and  there  you  came  by  many  a  weary  and 
cruel  path  with  a  wreath  in  your  hand.' 

*  It  is  only  waifs  like  us,'  she  said,  smiling  a  little 
wistfully,  '  that  could  meet  at  a  baby's  grave.' 

But  this  conversation  did  not  take  place  until 
Barnacles  had  known  her  quite  a  long  time. 

As  for  Mrs.  Beezle,  she  ruled  the  servants  at  Castle- 
head,  holding  family  worship  every  night  punctually 
at  nine.  She  felt  the  house  secure,  for  going  past  the 
window  of  an  antique  dealer  in  the  Back  Sneddon  she 
saw  a  sword  there.  She  entered  the  shop  and  asked  for  it. 

'  The  sword  ! !  '   asked  the  dealer  in  surprise. 

*  The  sword  ;  I  said  the  sword,'  she  snapped,  *  not  a 
monkey.' 

The  dealer  was  ruffled. 

*  It  is  very  expensive  ;  it  was  the  sword  of  one  of  the 
Covenanters.' 

*  Give  it  to  me,'  cried  Mrs.  Beezle,  transfixing  him 
with  a  single  eye  and  finger,  '  give  me  the  martyr's 
sword.'  And  having  received  it  she  carried  it  home' 
and  hung  it  up  in  the  hall,  immediately  beside  the 
front  door,  where  she  showed  it  to  her  mistress, 

'  It  is  a  sword  of  the  Covenanters,'  she  said  fiercely ; 
*  it  will  be  a  bad  day  for  him  if  ever  he  comes .  here. 
I  am  ready.' 

XIX 

Old  Fate  and  the  things  which  grind  the  face  of  life 
made  Patrick  Normanshire  somewhat  old  and  serious. 
He  found  nothing  consoling  in  life,  and  no  good  person 
upon   his   side.      He   drifted   from   lodging-house   to 


190  BARNACLES 

lodging-house,  half  starved,  and  haunted  with  gloomy 
thoughts.  He  was  on  the  point  of  leaving  Glasgow — 
on  foot — recognising  thereby  that  he  was  a  tramp, — 
when,  as  the  result  of  raking  once  more  the  advertise- 
ment columns  of  the  press,  he  got  work  in  one  of  the 
many  shops  owned  by  a  large  commercial  firm  whose 
headquarters  were  in  London.  They  dealt  in  ham, 
tea,  and  butter  mainly.  He  was  taken  on  as  a  dubious 
hand,  because  the  firm,  which  was  expanding  itself  in 
branch  shops  in  the  growing  suburbs  of  Glasgow,  were 
unwilling  to  offer  a  standard  wage  to  its  hands  in 
localities  where  custom  was  all  yet  to  make.  Their 
plan  was  to  have  a  competent  '  first  hand,'  with  an 
underpaid  man  in  assistance,  who  would,  they  hoped, 
soon  learn  the  business,  and  still  retain  his  initial  pay  ; 
or  if  increase  of  trade  justified  it,  gain  a  small  advance 
thereon. 

Patrick  soon  learned  that  he  was  for  six  days  of  the 
week  part  of  a  machine  that  must  keep  running  from 
eight  in  the  morning  till  seven  in  the  evening,  and  on 
Saturdays  till  ten.  He  had  learned  patience,  however  ; 
was  apt  at  business  ;  and  the  firm  stiU  pursuing  its 
policy  of  expansion,  elevated  him  to  the  charge  of  a 
small  new  branch  shop  on  the  outskirts  of  Glasgow. 

He  was  not  unhappy  ;  avoided  Glasgow  altogether, 
and  revived  his  old  interest  by  becoming  a  member  of 
a  church  choir. 

Life  ran  smoothly  thus  for  some  time,  and  he  was 
even  beginning  to  look  forward  to  a  time  when  he 
might  be  able  to  *  start  business  for  himself,'  when  a 
new  inspector  was  appointed  to  the  district.  From 
the  first  this  man  proved  himself  to  be  irascible  and 
malicious.     He  had  hoped  that  this  branch  shop  would 


BARNACLES  191 

have  fallen  to  a  friend  of  his,  for  whom  he  had  exerted 
his  influence  in  London,  and  he  hated  Patrick  for  sup- 
planting this  far-out  relation  of  his  wife's.  One  of 
his  duties  was  to  visit  the  shops  in  his  district  at  all 
hours,  in  order  to  satisfy  himself  that  the  men  were 
not  shirking.  He  began  to  harass  and  finally  to 
harry  Patrick,  who  would  find  him  waiting  outside  the 
shop  in  the  morning  at  five  minutes  to  eight.  He 
frequently  turned  up  as  weU  about  seven  in  the  evening, 
like  a  spy.  He  was  short,  thick-set,  fair,  with  bristles 
over  his  eyes  :  he  had  a  coarse,  sensuous  face,  bursting 
with  purple  blood,  and  vast  ears  with  thick  red  lobes. 
He  walked  about  the  shop,  his  little  pig's  eyes  every- 
where, and  hands  in  pocket,  as  if  he  carried  in  this  way 
in  front  of  him  a  pendent  stomach.  He  spoke  through 
his  nose — always  with  triumphant  assurance  in  his 
own  infallibility.  As  for  his  life  outside  the  shop,  he 
never  gave  away  anything.  He  was  a  thoroughly 
business  man — as  characterless  as  a  stone  wall. 

There  was  nothing  but  *  business '  on  his  horizon. 
He  moved  about  the  shop  as  if  the  floor  were  hot  coals, 
preaching  in  season  and  out  of  season  the  doctrine  of 
his  trinity — advertisement,  economy,  and  a  smile — the 
latter  for  all  customers,  though  he  himself  was  never 
seen  to  smile.  Instead  he  would  snap  contemptuously 
at  Patrick  or  the  stripling  who  was  part  assistant, 
part  message  boy,  '  Don't  hurry,  don't  hurry  ;  you  'U 
be  in  the  thick  of  it  next  year  p'r'aps ;  the  world  will 
wait  for  you.'  At  first  Patrick  attempted  rejoinder, 
but  as  the  inspector's  answer  was  always  the  same, 
*  Don't  try  to  get  round  me,'  he  met  the  man's  growling 
with  a  contemptuous  silence — even  when  he  went 
foaming  round  the  shop,  because  a  rival  firm  had 


192  BARNACLES 

opened  a  place  across  the  street,  and  by  selling  every- 
thing cheaper  in  the  first  week,  had  drawn  away  all 
Patrick's  customers. 

*  It 's  your  business,'  he  howled,  *  to  make  mince 
meat  of  them.' 

*  How  can  I  do  it  ? '  said  Patrick  ;  '  they  're  selling  a 
ha'penny  a  pound  cheaper.' 

*  Get  a  pamphlet  printed,  an  attractive  pamphlet ; 
scatter  it  wholesale,'  and  he  rounded  on  the  halflin ; 
'  look  at  that  fly-catcher  there  with  his  mouth  open  ; 
he  lives  on  flies  ;  get  busy  ;  do  something  useful,'  and 
he  raged  out  of  the  shop,  leaving  the  lad  paralysed. 

But  none  of  these  things  moved  Patrick.  Punctually 
every  Sunday  he  prepared  his  returns  and  had  them 
posted  on  that  day  for  London.  They  showed  the 
business  to  be  increasing.  Only  one  thing  troubled 
him.  For  some  time  past  he  discovered  that  his  cash 
was  not  squaring  with  the  results  of  his  stock-taking. 
He  was  obliged  to  take  the  assistant  lad  into  his  confi- 
dence. They  watched  everything  narrowly  ;  yet  the 
leakage  continued.  The  matter  was  becoming  serious 
for  Patrick,  because  it  was  taking  a  good  part  of  his 
wages  to  make  up  the  deficiency. 

One  evening,  a  little  before  seven,  the  boy  was 
washing  out  the  floor  of  the  shop.  Patrick  had  asked 
him  to  perform  this  task  a  little  earlier  than  usual,  in 
order  that  he  might  be  free  as  soon  after  seven  o'clock 
as  possible  to  go  to  Glasgow  to  one  of  the  concerts  of 
the  Choral  and  Orchestral  Union.  During  the  time 
the  lad  was  on  his  knees  a  woman  with  a  shawl  wrapped 
about  her  head  came  in,  and  asking  for  half  a  pound  of 
butter,  nodded  to  the  lad,  and  said,  '  The  inspector 's 
comin' ' — for   many  in   the  neighbourhood  knew  of 


BARNACLES  193 

the  man's  tyranny,  and  often  warned  Patrick  in  this 
way.  The  lad  jumped  to  his  feet  and  rushed  with  the 
paU  of  water  behind  the  counter.  Just  at  that  moment 
the  inspector  entered  the  shop  and  stood  like  a  dead 
wall  surveying  the  wet  floor.  The  lad  in  his  fear 
dived  beneath  the  counter  and  lifted  in  the  pail  beside 
him.  At  that  moment  it  struck  seven  from  a  church 
clock. 

The  inspector  waited  till  the  woman  had  left,  and 
then  in  a  squeaky  nasal  voice  opened  fire  : 

'  I  '11  have  to  report  this  ' — his  heavy  face  was  flooded 
with  blood — '  there  's  nothing  disgusts  a  customer  more 
than  coming  into  a  shop  sloppy  with  water.  Where  's 
that  boy  ?  ' 

*  It 's  my  fault,'  said  Patrick  in  a  quiet  tone.  '  I 
wished  to  attend  a  concert  in  Glasgow  to-night  and 
wanted  off  punctual  at  seven.' 

The  inspector  forgot  the  boy.  A  gleam  of  malice  lit 
up  his  eyes.  He  walked  behind  the  counter  and  grunted. 

*  Bring  me  your  books,  1  want  to  go  over  them.' 

*  They  're  not  made  up  to  date,'  said  Patrick,  at  the 
same  time  taking  off  his  apron.  The  inspector  knew 
that  the  books  were  not  made  up  untU  Sunday  for  the 
week  that  had  elapsed  ;  and  Patrick  knew  that  the 
man  simply  wanted  to  delay  him  as  much  as  possible. 

*  It  doesn't  matter  ;  I  've  come  specially  here  to-night 
to  see  them.' 

'  Very  weU,'  answered  Patrick,  '  but  I  'm  also  bound 
to  complain  at  headquarters  about  this.  It 's  after 
seven.' 

*  Complain  away,  but  bring  me  the  books.' 

The  lad  beneath  the  counter,  trembling  almost 
between  the  legs  of  the  inspector,  now  saw  a  sight  which 

N 


194  BARNACLES 

thrilled  him.  The  inspector  had  the  books  open  on 
the  counter  before  him,  and  was  bent  over  them,  his 
pendulous  belly  covering  the  till.  Inch  by  inch  the 
lad  saw  the  till  open.  The  sight  made  him  cease 
shivering.  His  fascinated  eyes  were  riveted  on  a 
white  podgy  hand  squeezed  between  the  bulge  of  the 
belly  and  the  till.  Presently  the  hand  crawled  up  like 
a  thing  apart  from  the  inspector  and  tried  the  opening. 
It  was  like  an  animal  at  a  hole.  It  retired  baffled. 
Again  the  till  was  pushed  from  beneath  ;  and  again  the 
white  fat  hand  crawled  up,  wriggled  sideways,  and 
disappeared.  The  lad  heard  the  faintest  chink  of 
money.  The  hand  reappeared.  It  was  more  fascinating 
than  a  scene  in  the  cinema  to  the  boy.  It  travelled 
down  and  across  to  the  man's  pocket.  And  all  the 
time  the  boy  heard  the  other  hand  of  the  inspector 
feverishly  ruffling  the  pages  of  the  books  he  was 
examining.  .  .  .  Twice,  thrice,  four  times  that  stealthy 
hand  travelled  up  the  swelling  of  the  beUy,  disappeared 
in  the  till,  reappeared  clenched,  and  sidled  across  to  the 
pocket.  .  .  .  Then  the  books  were  shut  with  a  snap. 

'  That  'U  do  now  ;  I  '11  finish  the  rest  on  Monday. 
Tell  that  young  cub  I  '11  see  him  then  and  teach  him 
to  wash  the  floor  before  seven  o'clock.  Get  out  the 
lights  now,  and  put  those  books  in  their  place.' 

When  Patrick  returned  from  replacing  the  books 
the  shop  was  empty. 

*  Mr.  Normanshire.'  He  heard  a  cautious  voice  from 
beneath  the  counter. 

*  It 's  all  right,  Alick  ;  you  can  come  out ;  he  's 
gone.' 

*  Mr.  Normanshire,  come  here,  come  here.'  Alick 
crawled  out  in  a  fever  of  excitement. 


BARNACLES  195 

*  I  've  fin'  oot,  I  've  fin'  oot.  He  leans  his  big  fat 
belly  ower  the  till  an'  opens  it  canny,  bit  by  bit,  and 
shoves  in  his  haun/ 

Patrick's  face  grew  pale.     In  a  flash  he  saw  the  trick. 

*  You  're  sure,  Alick  ?  ' 

*  Shair,  as  shair  's  I  'm  leevin' ;  was  I  no'  ablow  the 
coonter  watchin'  him.  Man,  he  's  the  fly  ane  ;  that 's 
whaur  the  money  's  goin'.' 

Patrick  leaned  over  the  counter  against  the  tiU. 

'  That 's  the  wy  ;  that 's  the  wy,  Mr.  Normanshire  ; 
only  your  belly  's  no'  as  big  as  his.  Pit  doon  your 
haun  noo.' 

*  No  ;  there  's  no  need,  Alick  ;  I  understand.'  He 
pondered  a  moment.  '  You  'U  say  nothing  about  this 
to  any  one,  Alick ;  we  '11  catch  him  red-handed  on 
Monday.' 

Monday  came  and  in  the  forenoon  the  inspector 
stepped  briskly  into  the  shop. 

His  ferrety  eyes  glanced  aU  round. 

*  Here,  you,'  he  cried  to  Alick,  *  what  do  you  mean  by 
washing  the  floor  before  the  door  is  closed  ?  ' 

*  I  've  already  told  you  that  I  am  to  blame,'  said 
Patrick. 

'  Mind  your  own  business,'  the  inspector  snapped 
contemptuously. 

*  I  'm  doing  that — and  I  wiU  do  it,*  answered  Patrick 
grimly. 

'  Where  's  them  handbills  ?  haven't  they  come  ?  ' 
'  No  handbills  have  come  here.' 

*  Here  you,  boy  !  cut  away  along  to  the  railway 
station  and  fetch  them.' 

Patrick  was  taken  aback.  He  wished  Alick  to  be  in 
the  shop,  an  extra  eye  upon  the  inspector. 


196  BARNACLES 

*  There  's  no  train/  he  said,  '  till  twelve-thirty.' 

*  Let  him  go  and  wait ;  he 's  clever  enough  idling  and 
smoking  cigarettes  at  other  times.' 

*  He  '11  be  wasting  more  than  an  hour  in  the  station,' 
urged  Patrick. 

*  Am  I  the  boss  here  or  you  ? '  he  snarled,  and  wheeled 
on  the  lad ;  *  be  oflE  with  you  and  hurry  back  with  these 
bills  the  moment  they  arrive.' 

Alick  left  the  shop  as  if  a  dead  elephant  were  tied 
to  each  boot. 

*  Don't  slouch ;  hurry,'  yelled  the  inspector  after  him. 
At  once  he  went  behind  the  counter  and  asked  for  the 
books. 

'  Quick  now,  you  lout ' — he  pulled  out  his  watch — *  I 
must  be  off  in  half  an  hour.' 

When  Patrick  returned  with  the  books  a  woman 
and  a  girl  were  in  the  shop. 

The  counter  flanked  each  of  two  walls  of  the  shop. 
As  Patrick  served  the  customers  he  stood  opposite 
the  inspector,  at  one  of  the  counters,  and  glancing  from 
his  eyelids  saw  one  of  the  man's  hands  disappear. 
The  woman  left  the  shop,  and  Patrick  delayed  the  girl 
sufficiently  long  to  enable  the  inspector  to  get  the  till 
opened.  When  she  left  he  picked  up  a  cloth  and 
began  to  move  round  the  shop,  dusting  the  fittings. 
The  inspector  threw  him  a  casual  glance  from  beneath 
his  bristles  and  pursued  his  study  of  the  books. 

Quietly  Patrick  worked  round  till  he  gained  the 
same  side  of  the  counter  as  that  at  which  the  inspector 
was.  He  could  see  nothing  but  the  expanse  of  the 
man's  side.  The  inspector  on  his  part  dared  not  move, 
for  his  hand  was  hot  in  the  till.  But  he  had  been 
in  this  position  before,  and  had  merely  to  wait  until 


BARNACLES  197 

Patrick  moved  away  out  of  range.  He  began  whistling 
over  the  books. 

Patrick  was  in  a  dilemma.  He  could  not  tell  whether 
the  inspector  had  his  hand  in  the  till  or  not,  and  to 
make  a  leap  in  the  dark  might  lead  to  confusion.  He 
went  on  dusting.  Presently  stealing  a  glance  at  the 
inspector  his  eyes  met  the  other's  watching  him  side- 
ways. For  one  long  moment  their  eyes  dwelt  on  one 
another.  A  tram-car  outside  rushed  past.  Some  one 
tramped  by  the  door.  And  silence  fell  on  the  shop. 
StiU  their  eyes  rested  long-drawn  on  one  another. 
Patrick  was  standing  with  his  arm  stretched  out 
holding  the  duster.  The  look  in  their  eyes  changed. 
That  of  the  inspector's  clouded,  then  darkened  with 
suspicion.  Patrick  saw  fear  coming  into  the  man's 
face.  His  own  eyes  were  those  of  a  fencer,  bright, 
keen,  unwavering.  He  saw  the  inspector  lick  his 
lips. 

*  What  are  you  staring  at,  you  lout  ? ' 

Even  as  the  man  spoke  Patrick's  body  became  tense 
for  a  spring.  The  next  moment  he  leapt.  The  in- 
spector was  paralysed.  His  body  hung  limply  against 
the  counter.  Without  protest  he  allowed  Patrick  to 
lift  his  hand  out  of  the  tiU.  Some  coins  dribbled 
weakly  from  his  grasp.  In  a  spasm  of  anger  Patrick 
raised  the  man's  arm  and  brought  down  his  knuckles 
smash  on  the  edge  of  the  till. 

'  You  damn  thief  1 '  he  said,  and  flung  the  hand  from 
him. 

It  fell  to  the  inspector's  side  and  hung  there  numbed. 
The  man  seemed  impervious  to  the  pain  of  the  blow. 
He  was  in  fact  stunned,  and  his  mind  was  only  slowly 
returning  to  reality. 


198  BARNACLES 

At  last  he  moved  away,  a  dazed  expression  still  on 
his  face,  and  began  to  rub  his  smarting  hand. 

'  It  ought  to  be  burned,'  said  Patrick. 

This  roused  the  man.  All  at  once  he  was  boiling 
with  rage. 

*  You  dare  to  interfere  when  I  was  finding  out  how 
your  cash  stands.' 

Patrick  scanned  him  contemptuously. 

'  No,'  he  said,  *  you  were  not ;  you  're  a  thief.' 

*  I  '11  make  you  smart  for  this  ;  I  have  injfluence  ; 
you  'U  get  short  shrift,'  he  foamed. 

*  No,'  answered  Patrick,  *  you  'U  not  have  that 
satisfaction.' 

*  Won't  1?  won'tl?* 

Patrick  made  no  answer,  but  passed  him  by  and 
disappeared  in  the  back  shop. 

A  moment  later  he  came  out,  hat  and  coat  on. 

*  Where  are  you  going  ?  '  the  inspector  bellowed. 

*  I  do  not  discuss  my  affairs  with  a  thief.'  Patrick 
walked  towards  the  door. 

*  Are  you  going  to  leave  the  shop  this  way  ?  I  can't 
stay  here  ;  I  must  go  away.' 

*  I  leave  you  to  rob  the  tiU  at  your  leisure.' 

The  inspector,  who  seemed  on  the  point  of  taking  an 
apoplectic  shock,  ran  round  the  counter  after  Patrick. 

*  There  's  no  one  here  to  look  after  things — ^that 
boy ' 

*  No !  there  's  no  one,'  answered  Patrick,  '  for  I 
count  you  nobody.  That 's  just  the  mistake  which  I 
regret  I  made ;  I  ought  to  have  had  in  a  policeman. 
You  'd  have  been  on  your  way  to  jail  by  now.' 

These  precipitate  events  alarmed  the  inspector.  His 
flabby  face  took  on  a  yellowish  tinge. 


BARNACLES  199 

*  Look  here  ;  don't  go  away  ;  I  '11  use  my  influence  ; 
you  've  done  very  well  here  ;  you  '11  get  promotion  ;  a 
Glasgow  shop  ;  there  's  one  vacant  in  New  City  Road.' 

Patrick  allowed  him  to  finish. 

*  Good-bye,'  he  answered  coldly,  *  I 'm  going  now 
to  write  to  London  and  give  my  reasons  for  leaving. 
Go  to  the  till.     It  is  still  open.' 

And  Patrick  left  the  shop. 

He  went  straight  to  the  railway  station  and  told  the 
boy. 

*  Gripes  !   if  I  'm  gaun  back  there,'  said  Alick. 
Patrick  gave  the  boy  sixpence  in  a  farewell  gift, 

shook  hands  with  him,  and  set  off  for  his  lodgings. 
All  afternoon  he  sat  brooding  —  on  Life  —  how  our 
mothers  conceive  us,  every  one,  and  we  cause  each 
other  an  abundance  of  pain  and  tears  ;  how  we  struggle 
and  suffer  ;  some  degraded,  some  triumphant — every- 
where a  jostling  crowd  pushing  to  make  way  and 
headway,  and  all  being  ground  between  great  invisible 
mill-stones.  He  stood  up  and  stretched  out  his  arms 
with  a  weary  gesture. 

*  No,'  he  said,  '  I  '11  not  report  him  ;  he  'U  have 
enough  to  stand  without  me,'  and  he  took  a  deep  gulp 
of  the  air.  '  Freedom,  my  God  !  freedom  ! '  He  felt  as 
if  chains  had  fallen  from  him,  and  he  was  hunted  no 
more. 

He  did  not  realise  the  great  victory  which  he  had 
won  for  himself. 

Yet  the  inspector  did  not  escape.  Alick  went  home 
and  told  his  mother  he  was  not  going  back  to  the  shop 
and  why.  This  woman  carried  a  rasping  tongue  to  the 
shop,  and  shrilly  interviewed  the  inspector.  Un- 
luckily he  ordered  her  out.    She  went,  flinging  threats ; 


200  BARNACLES 

and  Alick's  father  that  night  was  enjoined  to  write  to 
London  concerning  the  character  of  the  inspector. 

As  for  Patrick,  the  little  money  he  had  was  gone  in 
making  good  the  leakage  of  the  tiU.  Old  Fate  and  the 
things  which  grind  the  face  of  Life  between  the  great 
invisible  mill-stones  lay  hard  upon  him.  The  old 
desire  of  escape  into  vague  freedom  gripped  him.  As 
soon  as  the  last  penny  was  spent  he  walked  out  of 
Glasgow — a  tramp. 

XVI 

The  next  blow  of  fate  followed  rapidly,  as  it  often 
does  once  a  man  is  down.  Overcome  with  hunger  and 
fatigue,  for  he  could  not  bring  himself  to  beg,  he  was 
passing  through  a  village  in  Dumbartonshire,  when,  in 
the  midst  of  its  long  main  street  near  a  river,  he  was 
stopped  by  a  policeman — a  tail  man  with  a  fair  mous- 
tache and  lips  slightly  tinged  with  blue.  He  was 
sneezing  and  his  eyes  running. 

'  Are  you  on  tramp  ?  ' 

*  Yes,  I  am.' 

*  Where  are  you  from  ?  ' 
'  Glasgow.' 

*  What  were  you  doing  there  ?  ' 
'  Starving.' 

*  Where  are  you  going  1  ' 
'  God  knows.' 

A  mournful  look  came  into  the  swimming  eyes  of  the 
policeman. 

*  You  are  a  vagrant,'  he  said. 

*  No,'  answered  Patrick,  *  an  outcast.' 

*  You  '11  have  to  come  with  me.' 


BARNACLES  201 

'  Where  ? ' 

'  To  the  police-office.' 

*  Is  this  how  it  is  done  ?  '  Patrick  asked. 

'  All    suspicious    characters,'    said    the    policeman, 
drawing  himself  up  and  beginning  to  quote  a  regulation. 

*  Will  you  give  me  a  meal  ?  '  asked  Patrick. 
The  policeman  drew  himself  up  stiU  higher. 

*  I  get  tuppence  for  giving  a  prisoner  a  meal.    You  'U 
know  what  to  expect.' 

They  walked  on  up  the  street. 

'  Am  I  a  prisoner  ?  '  asked  Patrick. 

'  You  are  under  arrest.' 

*  What  crime  have  I  committed  ?  ' 
'  You  are  a  vagrant.' 

*  It  is  strange,'  said  Patrick.    *  I  know  a  thief  and  he 
is  at  large.' 

*  Give  him  time,'  said  the  policeman,  *  and  he  '11 
follow  you.' 

Patrick  made  no  answer.    A  spasm  of  faintness  had 
seized  him. 

*  Is  it  far  ?  '  he  asked,  wiping  away  a  cold  sweat 
which  was  oozing  out  on  his  brow. 

The  policeman  looked  sideways  at  him. 

*  Some  of  you  feUows  are  fools,  wandering  about 
when  you  might  be  comfortable  in  a  good  berth.' 

*  I  think — I  am  a  fool,'  gasped  Patrick,  *  but — ^life  has 
hammered  me.' 

As  much  the  tone  as  the  words  caused  the  policeman 
to  look  at  him  once  more. 

*  Had  you  bad  luck  ? '  he  asked  in  a  quick  tone  of 
sympathy. 

*  I  never  stole  ;    I  never  cheated ;    I  never  lied  or 
wronged  any  one — I  once  got  drunk — that  is  all ' — he 


202  BARNACLES 

reeled  against  the  policeman — *  I  'm  not  drunk  now — 
it 's  hunger.'  He  had  a  sensation  as  if  his  body  were 
rising  and  falling  in  the  air.  He  began  to  stagger,  and 
could  scarce  prevent  himself  from  pitching  forward. 
A  veil  of  darkness,  full  of  little  fiery  blots,  came  and 
went  before  his  eyes.  Suddenly  he  felt  a  strong  arm 
in  his  oxter,  and  heard  the  policeman  saying,  '  Lean 
on  me.'  He  stammered  his  thanks,  and  closed  his 
eyes  for  the  rest  of  the  journey.  The  grip  of  the 
policeman  kept  him  more  than  once  from  pitching 
forward.  When  they  reached  the  police-station  he 
coUapsed  on  a  chair,  and  went  swimming  away  into 
darkness. 

He  was  roused  out  of  it  by  the  taste  of  fire  in  his 
mouth  and  throat.  He  began  to  cough  and  opened 
his  eyes.  He  was  lying  on  a  floor  near  a  fire,  and 
beside  him  on  his  knees  was  the  policeman,  glass  in 
hand.  The  officer's  tunic  was  open.  This  gladdened 
Patrick.     It  made  the  man  appear  homely. 

'  Take  another  mouthful.' 

Patrick  swallowed  the  liquid. 

After  what  seemed  a  long  interval  he  heard  the 
voice  again : 

*  Sit  up  and  take  this.' 

An  intolerable  weight  pressed  him  down  as  he 
struggled  to  sit  up.  An  arm  was  put  around  his 
shoulder.  The  policeman  was  holding  a  bowl  of  soup 
in  his  hand. 

Patrick  began  to  eat  ravenously.  There  was  also 
a  slice  of  bread.  Before  the  soup  was  half  finished  he 
felt  his  strength  coming  back. 

*  Is  this  how  you  treat  your  prisoners  ?  '  he  asked, 
smiling  up  into  the  policeman's  face. 


BARNACLES  203 

*  For  tuppence  a  meal  ? '  The  blue  grave  eyes 
twinkled. 

*  And  why  me — preferential  treatment  ?  ' 

*  You  're  not  an  ordinary  tramp  ;  I  know  the  breed.' 

*  No,  I  'm  not.' 

*  See  here ' — the  policeman  rose,  opened  a  drawer  and 
took  out  a  ledger — *  I  ought  to  enter  in.  this  book  your 
name,  age,  height,  colour  of  hair  and  eyes ' — he  was 
pointing  with  a  forefinger  to  the  headiags  of  the 
columns — '  marks  if  any ;  my  own  remarks.'  He  closed 
the  official  record  with  a  snap.  '  I  'm  not  going  to  do  it. 
I  ought  to  put  you  in  a  cell  for  to-night ;  but  you  can 
sleep  here.  I  'm  not  going  to  be  the  first  to  put  you 
in  jail.' 

Patrick  was  still  weak. 

'  Thank  you,'  he  said,  '  it 's  the  first  kindness  I  've 
met '     His  voice  choked. 

'  It 's  all  right ;  all  right,'  said  the  policeman,  swing- 
ing his  long  arm  as  if  he  were  going  to  strike  some  one. 
He  bent  down  to  Patrick, '  You  're  right ' — the  blue  eyes 
took  on  a  cold  hard  look — '  it 's  the  likes  of  you  get 
landed  in,  while  the  rogues  get  off.  There  's  a  publican 
down  there  offered  me  a  bottle  of  whisky  to  shut  my 
eyes.  I  wouldn't  take  a  thousand  pounds  in  a  bribe. 
What  right  has  he  tempting  an  honest  man  from  his 
duty  ? '  The  policeman  swung  his  fist  and  brought  it 
down  on  the  bar.     Then  he  stalked  out  of  the  room. 

He  returned  with  a  cup  of  tea,  bread,  and  butter. 
While  Patrick  was  again  eatiag,  the  officer  carried  in 
a  greatcoat,  a  pillow,  and  two  blankets,  and  made  a  bed 
on  the  floor. 

Patrick  lay  down.  He  heard  the  policeman  putting 
coal  on  the  fire ;   the  figure,  the  sounds  gradually 


204  BARNACLES 

faded  away  ;  and  the  next  moment — as  he  thought — 
he  was  being  wakened. 

*  Time  to  go,'  a  voice  said. 
It  was  scarcely  dawn. 

*  You  'd  better  get  away  before  folks  are  stirring.' 
He  was  given  cocoa,  bread,  and  butter ;  and  when  h© 

had  finished  the  policeman  said,  *  Let  me  give  you  a 
bit  of  advice :  if  the  police  stop  you  teU  them  you 
have  a  destination  in  view ;  a  tramp  is  a  man  that 
comes  from  nowhere  an'  goes  nowhere.' 

Patrick  suddenly  made  up  his  mind. 

'  I  have  a  destination  in  view,'  he  answered  ;  *  I  'm 
going  home.' 

*  Where  's  that  ? ' 
•Argyll.' 

*  Well,  you  have  a  tramp,'  said  the  policeman.  He 
put  his  hand  in  his  pocket. 

Patrick  at  once  realised  the  truth  of  the  definition 
of  a  tramp. 

*  The  road  's  not  long  or  weary  that  leads  to  home,' 
he  answered. 

'  Here,'  said  the  policeman,  offering  Patrick  a  shilling, 
*  it 's  aU  I  can  spare.     I  've  five  weans  aU  in  school  yet.' 

*  I  cannot  thank  you,  but  I  'U  never  forget  your 
kindness  and  cheering  words.' 

The  policeman  at  once  looked  uncomfortable,  and 
began  to  swing  his  arms. 

'  It 's  all  right,  all  right ;  get  a  job ;  keep  off  the  road ; 
it  takes  the  heart  out  of  a  man.' 

*  You  've  put  heart  and  life  into  me,'  and  afraid  his 
emotion  would  master  him,  Patrick  shook  hands  and 
hurried  out  of  the  door. 

The  still  greyness  of  the  coming  day  lay  around. 


BARNACLES  205 

The  stars  were  small  and  dim  and  about  to  be  lost  in 
their  vast  depths.  The  air  was  beautifully  fresh ; 
the  fields  silver-grey  ;  and  every  blade  bright  with 
dew-baby  eyes  watching  for  the  morning.  It  had 
come.  The  East  was  looking  at  him  with  a  faint  flush. 
Joy  sprang  up  in  Patrick's  heart  because  he  had  not 
reported  the  inspector,  for  he  had  suddenly  recalled 
the  poHceman's  words : 

*  I  'm  not  going  to  be  the  first  to  put  you  in  jaU.' 
Patrick  lifted  a  morning  face  to  the  new  day. 
But  as  he  walked  along  he  began  to  brood  on  his 
misfortunes,  wondering  what  had  caused  them.  Once 
life  was  a  rock  beneath  his  feet.  Now  everything  was 
insecure.  He  was  soon  to  learn  the  secret  of  his 
misfortune. 

XVII 

On  the  second  day  he  passed  through  Arrochar, 
came  round  the  head  of  Loch  Long,  and  struck  west 
through  the  pass  of  Glencroe.  It  was  dark  when  he 
came  down  on  the  shore  of  Loch  Fyne  at  the  ferry  at  St. 
Catherine's.  He  had  spent  the  last  of  the  policeman's 
shilling  in  Arrochar,  and  had  no  means  of  crossing  by 
the  ferry.  He  would  have  to  walk  round  the  head  of 
the  loch. 

He  was  weary  to  the  bone.  It  was  raining  heavily, 
and  thunder  was  beginning  to  growl  in  the  Mils  of 
Argyll.  He  remembered  seeing  back  on  the  road  a 
shed  half  fuU  of  hay.  Flash  after  flash  of  lightning 
blinded  him.  He  stumbled  on  through  the  drenching 
darkness,  despairing  of  ever  finding  the  shed.  All  at 
once  a  greenish  flame  opened  up  the  landscape  and 


206  BARNACLES 

revealed  the  bowels  of  the  huddling  heavens.  It  burst 
on  the  zmc  roof  of  the  shed  and  streamed  ofi  in  fire. 
Patrick  set  to  running.  By  the  time  he  reached  the 
shed  the  storm  was  roaring  from  horizon  to  horizon  ; 
the  wind  was  like  a  demon  trying  to  tear  the  btdky 
mass  of  the  darkness  to  tatters  ;  the  rain  was  making 
a  clean  breach  with  a  million  black  spears  over  a  naked 
world. 

Spent  by  the  force  of  the  gale  Patrick,  who  felt  hay 
beneath  his  feet,  was  suddenly  overcome  with  a 
yearning  for  rest. 

*  My  God  !  what  a  night.'  He  groaned  and  stumbled 
forward. 

*  You  are  standing  on  my  leg,'  he  heard  a  calm  voice 
say. 

He  leapt  back  as  if  he  had  been  stabbed,  and  stood 
trembling. 

The  voice  spoke  again : 

'  Please  be  careful  that  you  do  not  tramp  on  my 
violin.' 

There  was  a  rustling  in  the  hay  and  again  the  voice  : 

'  It 's  all  right ;  I  've  got  my  violin.' 

A  lightning  flash  filled  the  shed,  and  Patrick  got  a 
glimpse  of  a  long  lean  figure  sitting  up  among  the  hay, 
holding  a  violin  to  its  breast. 

The  sight  of  this  person  and  his  quiet  indomitable 
voice  had  an  immediate  effect  of  calm  on  Patrick's 
mind.  Whoever  he  was  he  seemed  oblivious  to  the 
insensate  fury  of  the  tempest.  Patrick  took  a  step 
nearer. 

*  Who  are  you  ?  '  he  shouted,  for  the  rain  streaming 
off  the  edge  of  the  shed  made  a  loud  hisstug  and 
drumming. 


BARNACLES  207 

*  I  am  a  waif  in  the  meantime.* 

The  answer,  consorting  with  Patrick's  own  estate, 
made  him  burst  out  laughing. 

'  Draw  in  here  beside  me,'  the  voice  said  again. 
*  I  am  glad  to  hear  you  laughing.' 

Patrick  groped  on  his  fours  till  he  felt  his  comrade  in 
misfortune. 

'  And  who  are  you  ?  '  the  voice  at  his  ear  in  the  dark 
said. 

'  I  am  a  wren  in  a  wildemess — a  very  wet  and  cold 
and  himgry  wren.' 

There  was  silence  of  speech  for  a  moment. 

Then  the  voice  spoke  again  with  a  coolness  and  con- 
fidence which  not  even  the  falling  heavens  might  break. 

'  If  you  are  wet  take  off  your  trousers  and  jacket 
and  lie  among  the  hay.' 

Patrick  recognised  the  wisdom  of  the  advice,  and 
stripped.  The  man  by  his  side,  Patrick  judged  by  his 
movements,  was  doing  the  same. 

*  Are  you  wet  too  ?  '  he  asked. 

Shivering,  he  was  trying  to  heap  the  hay  upon  himself. 

'  No  !  I  got  in  here  in  time.'  He  was  evidently  pulling 
off  his  trousers. 

'  What  are  you  doing  ?  '  asked  Patrick. 

There  was  a  final  tug,  and  the  same  quiet  voice 
said: 

'  Put  on  these  trousers.'  They  were  pushed  into 
Patrick's  hand. 

'  But  you  'U  be  cold,'  he  protested. 

*  No,  I  'm  quite  warm  and  dry.   Put  them  on,  please.' 
Patrick,  ashamed  of  his  selfishness,  took  the  trousers. 

*  And  this  jacket.'  It  also  was  thrust  into  his 
arms. 


208  BARNACLES 

*  No,  I  won't,'  he  said. 

*  Yes,  you  will,  or  I  cannot  sleep.' 

Patrick,  numb  with  cold,  took  the  jacket  like  a 
famished  man  taking  food. 

'  Put  this  violin  away  in  case  it  gets  damaged.' 

Patrick  obeyed. 

'  Now,  my  friend,  lie  down.' 

Patrick,  who  five  minutes  ago  felt  as  if  he  had  been 
sheathed  in  melting  ice,  began  to  feel  a  genial  heat 
steal  over  him. 

The  unknown  was  on  his  feet.  Suddenly  a  bluish 
flash  filled  the  bam,  and  Patrick  got  a  glimpse  of  a 
tall  gaunt  figure  in  shirt  and  drawers  with  his  arms 
full  of  hay.  The  bundle  fell  over  Patrick's  feet.  Again 
and  again  a  bundle  fell. 

'  What  are  you  doing  ?  ' 

'  I  'm  making  a  rampart  against  the  storm.' 

Tirelessly  the  stranger  built  up  a  wall  of  hay  all 
round  the  place  where  they  lay.  Then  he  crept  in 
and  lay  beside  Patrick,  who  was  buried  in  the  hay  to  his 
chin. 

Patrick  was  uneasy  in  his  ease. 

*  Won't  you  take  your  clothes  ?  '  he  said. 
'  No,  thanks  ;  I  am  quite  warm.' 

The  wind  at  that  moment  came  in  an  appalling 
scream  as  if  a  cry  of  pain  were  wrenched  out  of  the 
breast  of  the  night.  It  swooped  with  battering  wings 
upon  the  shed.     When  it  passed,  Patrick  shouted : 

*  I  'm  afraid  the  roof  will  go.' 

The  voice  at  his  ear  spoke  with  a  calm  that  resisted 
the  night  of  the  tempest. 

*  Did  you  say  you  are  hungry  ?  ' 

*  Yes ;  famishing.' 


BARNACLES  209 

*  Put  your  hand  in  the  jacket  pocket  and  you  '11 
find  a  parcel.' 

Patrick  rolled  on  his  side,  found  it,  and  took  it  out. 

He  handed  it  to  the  stranger,  who  said,  '  If  God 
would  strike  another  match  I  could  manage  better.' 

So  far  from  being  a  blasphemy,  Patrick  divined  the 
simple  faith  of  a  child  in  the  words,  and  he  asked 
curiously,  *  What  is  your  name  ?  ' 

Just  at  that  moment,  as  if  in  answer  to  the  stranger's 
request,  the  shed  shone  from  end  to  end.  There  was 
a  rustling  of  paper  and  Patrick  felt  something  soft 
pushed  in  his  face. 

*  Here  is  a  scone  ;  eat  it.' 

He  spluttered,  laughing,  '  That 's  my  face  you  've 
got,'  and  took  the  scone  in  his  hand. 

*  Here  is  another.' 

Patrick  munched,  feeling  the  delicious  tang  of  salt 
butter  in  the  scone. 

'  Would  you  mind  telling  me  your  name  ? '  he  asked 
again. 

A  gust  of  the  gale  battered  at  the  shed. 

In  the  luU  Patrick  heard  the  unknown  answer : 

'  My  name  is  Barnacles.' 

'  Barnacles  !  Barnacles  what  ?  ' 

There  was  a  fresh  sheet-glare  in  the  shed,  a  fresh 
crash  in  the  heavens.  In  the  sudden  darkness  and 
stillness  that  followed  Patrick  heard  the  voice  at  his 
ear  clear  and  strong  saying,  '  In  this  night  of  storm 
I  pray  that  all  little  birds  may  have  covert,  and  sheep 
upon  the  moor  shelter ;  for  all  seamen  upon  the  deep, 
and  men  in  war  whose  blood  is  soaking  the  soil,  that 
they  shall  have  mercy  and  rest.' 

Patrick  waited.  ...  A  silence  that  was  more  than 


210  BARNACLES 

rest  from  the  tempest  filled  the  shed.  The  petitionmg 
words,  like  a  quiet  thing  of  heaven,  stole  away  his 
trouble  and  rebuked  him  who  had  shelter  from  the 
night.  Peace  stole  in  upon  his  soul  as  if  from  the 
folded  hands  of  the  man  at  his  side. 

Another  roar  split  the  heavens.  When  it  rolled 
away  into  the  hills  living  with  echoes  in  the  wild 
darkness,  Patrick  leaned  forward  and  said  : 

'  Ay  !  there  are  many  far  worse  ofif  than  us  ;  I  did 
not  think  of  that.'  There  was  no  answer,  except  a 
gentle  snore. 

Barnacles  was  asleep  in  the  lap  of  the  thunder. 


.  s 


BOOK  III 


*  This  is  a  be — be — ^beautiful  room,'  he  said,  slightly 
stammering.  Mrs.  Normanshire  was  quietly  watching 
him — his  head  high,  beautifully  poised,  and  graceful 
in  its  movements  as  his  eyes  turned  from  object  to 
object  in  the  room. 

Mrs.  Gilfillan  was  flattered.  She  was  a  woman  of 
indefatigable  amiability,  who  always  put  forth  her  best 
efforts  in  presence  of  a  new  face.  In  appearance  she 
was  small,  bird-like,  with  bright  eyes  somewhat  roguish, 
and  a  rosy  face.  She  affected  a  mincing  walk,  and  in 
conversation  held  up  a  coquettish  chin.  She  ran  after 
every  new  thing  which  she  heard  of  or  saw  advertised. 
At  the  present  moment  she  was  burning  an  aromatic 
stick  to  scent  the  room.  '  Loot  from  a  ladies'  journal,' 
the  banker  described  it.  Much  of  her  house  was  fur- 
nished from  what  she  had  seen  in  the  homes  of  others. 
This  is  why  she  was  now  flattered.  Besides  she  had 
told  Mrs.  Normanshire  of  the  banker's  discovery — 

*  one  of  God's  innocents.' 

Barnacles,  by  his  first  naive  remark,  had  not  failed 
to  come  up  to  her  description. 

The  banker  was  delighted.  He  was  rubbing  his 
hands,  and  his  ruddy  face  was  wreathed  in  sUent 
laughter  which  betrayed  a  set  of  excellent  white  teeth. 

'  You  like  the  room,'  he  said ;  '  my  word  !  He  drew 
his  forefinger  across  his  brow  and  flicked  it,  as  if  it  were 
loaded  with  sweat. 


214  BARNACI.es 

The  gaze  of  Barnacles  which  had  travelled  slowly 
round  the  room  rested  on  Mrs.  Normanshire.  He 
took  ofiE  his  spectacles  and  went  forward  to  her,  with 
his  hand  out : 

'  I  have  never  forgotten  how  you  sang  in  the  Abbey  ; 
I  went  back  twice  in  the  hope  of  hearing  you  again.* 

She  was  dressed  in  black,  without  any  adornment 
save  a  cameo  portrait  set  in  gold,  of  a  man  of  some  sixty 
years,  at  her  throat.  Though  her  hair  was  white  her 
face  had  the  pure  freshness  of  a  water-flower,  and 
breathed  the  indefinable  perfume  of  a  delicate  girl. 
She  raised  her  eyes  and  gazed  full  at  Barnacles,  with 
a  look  which  came  out  of  a  central  calm.  Barnacles 
had  never  seen  such  eyes.  The  long  lashes  shielded 
them  from  the  hard  light,  and  they  had  the  softness 
and  depth  of  colour  of  a  dark-purple  pansy.  Her  face 
was  as  impassive  as  marble,  and  a  quiet  strength,  almost 
of  determination,  breathed  from  her  person  as  she  took 
his  hand  and  answered : 

*  I  may  not  thank  you  for  your  courtesy,  since  I  was 
singing  in  church.' 

Her  voice  was  as  soft  as  her  eyes. 

Still  holding  her  hand  he  pondered  her  words. 

'  That  is  wise,'  he  said  at  length ;  '  we  do  our  very 
best  there,  and  ought  not  to  speak  of  it.' 

He  sat  down  on  the  couch  at  her  side. 

'  My  word  1 '  cried  the  banker,  flicking  invisible  sweat, 
*  at  home  with  the  ladies  already.  Don't  sit  down ; 
I  've  something  to  tell  you  ;  come  and  have  a  game  of 
billiards.' 

*  What  an  idea,'  said  his  wife ;  *  the  moment  he  comes 
in,  to  drag  him  off  to  the  billiard-room,  and  he  so  nice 
about  the  room  and  Martha's  voice.' 


BARNACLES  215 

'  All  right,  all  right ;  peace  at  any  price,  Barnacles.' 
The  banker  waved  his  hand,  sat  down,  and  crossed  his 
legs.  'Tell  us  about  that  sheep  and  the  violin — ^you 
remember.' 

'  No,'  said  a  low  voice  at  his  side,  '  tell  us  about  the 
baby  that  you  buried.' 

Barnacles  turned  in  astonishment  and  met  her 
profound  gaze. 

*  You  know  ?  '  he  asked  eagerly. 
'  Yes  ;  1  saw  you.' 

*  My  word,  my  word  !  found  out.  Barnacles.' 
Barnacles  paid  no  attention  to  Mr.  Gilfillan.     He 

was  staring  at  Mrs.  Normanshire. 

'  Did  you  put  the  wreath  there  1  ' 

Her  face  flushed. 

'  My  word,  found  out ! ' — a  big  hearty  laugh  rang 
through  the  room — *  a  couple  of  conspirators ;  thief 
catch  thief.' 

'  Nicol,  for  shame  !  '  chided  his  wife. 

*  Heaven  will  bless  you  for  it,'  said  Barnacles 
earnestly.  He  made  a  movement  to  take  Mrs.  Norman- 
shire's  hand,  but  checked  himself.  '  It  was  the  baby 
of  a  poor  girl.  I  found  out  by  accident.  She  does  not 
know  where  her  child  is  buried.  A  nameless  grave. 
That  is  how  they  suffer.  It  fills  me  with  shame.'  His 
cheeks  began  to  bum.  '  Every  day  they  suffer.  It  is 
their  lot.  There  is  a  blind  man  lives  beside  me.  He 
lost  his  mother.  He  is  blinder  than  ever.  Some  of 
them  are  silent — always  ;  and  some  are  weeping  every 
hour  of  the  day.  They  live  Uke  rats  in  a  ceUar.  They 
drink,  too,  where  I  live,  and  fight ;  but  don't  blame 
them.'  He  leaned  forward,  watching  Mrs.  Norman- 
shire's  face.     She  shook  her  head  as  if  to  say  that  she 


216  BARNACLES 

at  least  never  blamed  them.  '  They  have  nothing  else 
to  do.'  His  body  was  trembling.  '  They  suffer  in 
silence,  like  the  poor  mother  of  the  baby.  They  do 
the  hard  work  of  the  world  for  very  little.  One  would 
always  be  sad  living  among  them  were  it  not  for  the 
eternal  goodness  of  their  heart.' 

He  stopped,  all  out  of  breath.  The  banker  was  look- 
ing at  him  with  a  curiously  puckered  face. 

'  Have  you  discovered  that  ?  '  said  the  low  voice  at 
his  side,  which  was  vibrating  with  sympathy. 

'  Their  goodness  is  an  angel  in  the  midst  of  their 
suffering.  It  would  be  hopeless,  too,  only  God  knows 
about  it.  But  better  days  will  come  to  us.'  His  voice 
rang  out  clear  and  strong. 

*  To  whom  ?  '  asked  Mrs.  Normanshire. 

*  To  all  of  us  ;  wee  Kitchener  and  his  grandfather 
and  me  and  you.' 

*  Do  I  need  better  days  ?  '  she  asked  gravely. 

'  Never  was  a  heart  but  had  hope  of  to-morrow,'  he 
answered,  and  smiled  into  her  eyes. 

The  banker,  whose  jollity  had  been  eclipsed  at  this 
strange  dialogue,  broke  in  : 

*  I  nearly  forgot  your  own  hope,  Barnacles.  I  pro- 
mised to  get  a  job  for  you,'  he  said  in  a  more  earnest 
tone,  for  his  opinion  of  this  '  one  of  God's  innocents  * 
was  changing  rapidly. 

*  That  is  not  my  hope  at  all,'  answered  Barnacles. 

*  Eh  !   I  thought  you  were  out  of  work.' 

*  So  I  am  ;  but  my  hope  is  for  the  old  gentleman  I 
live  with.  He  was  a  seaman.  Once  he  could  stand 
the  cold  and  the  gales  ;  but  now  he  is  old  ;  the  wind 
goes  through  him.' 

*  CfkU  I  help  him  ? '  asked  Mrs,  Normanshire,  who 


BARNACLES  217 

indeed  spent  a  large  part  of  her  means  in  secret  deeds 
of  charity. 

Barnacles  grew  very  red  in  the  face. 

*  He  has  spent  the  last  years  of  his  life  shivering. 
For  five  years  he  has  been  hungering  for  a  pilot  reefer 
jacket.  I  am  not  betraying  his  secret  since  you  have 
offered  your  help.'  He  turned  from  the  banker  to 
Mrs.  Normanshire,  and  again  to  the  banker.  '  I  meant 
to  ask  you,  sir,  for  this  jacket  and  pay  you  when  I  get 
work.  If  I  do  not  help  him  I  am  sinning  against  the 
Lord  God,  and  am  in  danger  of  hell-fire.  When  I 
was  without  work  and  utterly  alone,  and  had  nothing 
to  eat  and  not  a  friend  in  all  the  world,  they  took 
me  in.' 

At  those  words  Mrs.  Normanshire  pitied  this  unfor- 
tunate, and  had  a  desire  to  give  him  some  recompense 
for  the  hardness  of  his  lot. 

*  Be  easy,  be  easy,'  said  the  banker ;  '  we  '11  leave 
hell-fire  for  the  Abbey  Kirk  on  Sunday.  And  don't 
borrow.     It 's  a  pernicious  habit  in  young  men.' 

'  Don't  heed  him,  Mr.  Brocklehurst,'  said  the 
banker's  wife  ;  *  he  's  just  teasing  you.' 

*  My  word ' — he  embraced  his  wife  and  Mrs.  Norman- 
shire in  a  glance — *  we  'U  raise  the  goods  between  us.' 

'  No  !   I  wish  to  do  this,'  said  Mrs.  Normanshire. 
Barnacles  took  a  slip  of  paper  from  his  pocket. 

*  There  are  other  things.'  He  put  on  his  spectacles. 
*  A  black  silk  muffler  ;  and  for  wee  Kitchener  a  knife 
and  a  pair  of  boots.' 

'  Wee  Kitchener,'  roared  the  banker ;  '  where  did  he 
get  the  name  ?  ' 

*  His  father,  Mr.  Skelly,  served  in  the  Scottish  Rifles 
in  the  Boer  War.' 


218  BARNACLES 

A  sudden  change  came  into  the  banker's  face.  Tears 
welled  up  in  the  eyes  of  his  wife.  She  left  her  seat 
and  crossed  the  room  to  the  fireplace,  where  she  knelt, 
and  picked  up  the  tongs. 

'  Tell  Mr.  Skelly  that  my  son  fell  leading  on  the  men 
of  the  Scottish  Rifles,'  said  the  banker. 

Barnacles  rose  and  went  towards  the  banker. 

'  That  was  splendid ' — he  put  his  hand  half  across 
the  banker's  shoulder — *  peace  came  out  of  his  blood. 
God  will  give  you  peace  too.' 

An  awkward  silence  filled  the  room. 

Barnacles'  gaze  was  resting  on  the  kneeling  woman. 
He  took  one  step  towards  her. 

*  I  am  not  fit  to  speak  to  the  mother  of  a  soldier 
who  has  died  for  his  country,'  he  said. 

The  tongs  rattled  on  the  grate. 

Mrs.  Normanshire  saw  the  blue  eyes  of  Barnacles 
swimming  with  tears. 

She  rose  swiftly,  touched  the  banker  on  the  shoulder 
as  she  passed,  and  met  his  look  with  a  smile.  The 
next  moment  a  soft  melody  from  the  piano  shpped  into 
the  air. 

The  gaze  of  Barnacles  was  riveted  on  the  player. 
He  was  about  to  sit  down  on  the  couch,  but  the  music 
held  him  where  he  stood.  When  the  last  of  the  melody 
died  away  she  found  him  behind  her,  standing  quite 
close  as  if  he  had  known  her  for  a  very  long  time.  She 
felt  his  presence  friendly  and  intimate,  and  hesitated 
whether  to  go  on  playing  or  to  leave  the  piano. 

'  Where  did  you  learn  ?  '  he  asked.  His  underlip 
was  quivering  like  a  child's. 

The  question  was  steeped  in  a  past  both  sacred  and 
tragic.    The  blood  ebbed  away  from  her  face. 


BARNACLES  219 

*  Have  I  afflicted  you  ? — ^forgive  me — it  was  so 
beautiful.' 

She  was  ashamed  of  herself.  Candour  and  simplicity 
were  in  his  words.  Nor  was  she  insensible  of  his  air 
of  homage,  and  the  look  of  worship  in  his  eyes. 

*  No,  no,'  she  answered,  a  little  breathless,  '  I  learned 
long  ago  in  Germany — and  from  my  father.' 

'  I  wish  I  had  known  him  ;  he  must  have  been 
worthy  of  admiration.' 

These  words  of  tribute  suddenly  rolled  back  the 
years,  and  left  her  for  a  fragrant  moment  in  the  presence 
of  her  father.  The  illusion  vanished,  leaving  a  terrible 
ache.  Her  soul  went  out  to  the  man  beside  her  who  by 
a  word  had  made  her  sacred  dead  live  once  more.  She 
rose,  and  said  m  a  low  voice,  *  We  will  talk  of  him  again ' 
— she  faltered — *  when  we  know  each  other  better.' 

Fingering  the  cameo  at  her  throat  she  passed  to  her 
former  seat. 

Barnacles'  face  was  radiant. 

*  Then  I  may  come  again,'  he  said  in  a  loud  voice, 
*  and  hear  you  ? ' 

It  was  Mrs.  Gilfillan  who  answered  : 
'  Would  you  like  to,  Mr.  Brocklehurst  ?  ' 
'  You  don't  know  what  you  ask.  If  you  lived  where 
I  live,  where  you  see  the  cruelty  of  men  !  It  is  a  dark 
power.  Men  are  crushed  by  it.  The  mother  of  the 
blind  man  beside  me  was  caught  in  it.  It  would  not 
let  her  sleep.  It  crushes  all  their  hopes.  I  see  it 
every  day.  There  is  the  most  terrible  anguish  in  the 
back  streets  of  Paisley.  They  don't  know  it  because 
they  are  accustomed  to  it.  It  is  like  heaven  to  be  in 
this  beautiful  room.  I  am  only  a  poor  man.  I  have 
hardly  a  friend.    Is  it  true  I  can  come  back  ? ' 


220  BARNACLES 

*  As  often  as  you  like/  said  the  banker. 

*  And  hear  you  play  ? '  He  advanced  towards  Mrs. 
Normanshire. 

She  turned  on  him  wondrous  eyes.  Here  was  the 
recompense  she  had  desired  to  make  him  for  the 
hardness  of  his  lot. 

*  You  will  always  be  welcome,'  she  said. 

'  It  is  very  gracious  of  you.  It  will  give  me  power 
to  live.'  He  made  a  nervous  gesture  with  his  hands. 
'  I  am  very  stupid  ;  I  do  not  know  how  to  tell  you 
what  I  feel.  Everything  has  a  place  where  it  is 
glorified — the  rainbow  in  the  sky  and  the  grasses 
dancing  on  the  earth.  In  this  beautiful  place,  speak- 
ing to  you  all  and  listening  to  such  music,  I  am  filled 
with  joy.' 

Mrs.  Normanshire  was  receiving,  if  she  also  gave, 
recompense,  for  his  words  moved  her  strangely. 

*  Perhaps  you  help  us  too,  Mr.  Brocklehurst,'  she  said. 
Her  cheeks  were^  suffused  with  colour  ;  her  soft  eyes 

were  glowing.  As  Barnacles  gazed  into  their  velvet 
depths  they  were  like  a  caress. 

Their  eyes  held  each  other  for  a  moment.,  in  which 
their  souls  were  merged  in  a  mutual  joy,  in  a  loftier 
hope  of  life. 

The  next  moment  Barnacles  abruptly  took  his  leave. 

Mrs.  Gilfillan  was  still  at  the  fireside. 

*  What  a  strange  man,'  she  said ;  '  I  feel  as  if  things 
weren't  the  same  since  he  was  here.' 

The  banker  had  also  been  infliienced  by  Barnacles. 
He  felt  the  man's  touch  of  benediction  stiU  on  his 
shoulder  ;  but  he  would  not  openiy  betray  himself. 

*  He  seems  to  be  a  Socialist,'  he  said  in  a  careless 
tone. 


BARNACLES  221 

Mrs.  Normanshire  was  pulling  on  her  gloves. 

*  No  ;  he 's  not,'  she  answered  in  a  quiet  voice ;  '  he 
has  experienced  everything  he  said.  He  is  the  poor 
man.     He  was  speaking  of  himself.' 

*  My  word  !  I  believe  you  've  hit  the  naU,  Martha.' 
He  took  her  arm.  *  Are  you  ready  ?  change  for  the 
Buchs,  Mulguy,  and  Castlehead.' 

As  they  walked  up  the  road  to  Mrs.  Normanshire's 
large  wooden  door  in  a  high  stone  wall,  she  said  : 
'  I  think  you  forgot  to  tell  him  about  his  job.' 
The  banker  stopped  and  slapped  his  thigh. 

*  My  word ! ' — he  drew  his  finger  across  his  forehead 
— *  it  was  himself  put  me  off.' 

They  walked  on  again. 

*  He  '11  need  to  gather  his  wits  about  him  if  he  's 
going  to  do  anything.' 

'  Where  were  your  own  when  you  forgot  to  tell  him  ? ' 

*  I  don't  know  ;  he  makes  you  think  there  are  more 
things  in  the  world  than  getting  a  job.' 

The  joUy  banker  sighed  deeply  to  the  summer  night. 
The  next  moment  he  began  to  whistle  vigorously,  with 
his  face  to  the  stars. 

One  could  see  that  he  was  prematurely  grey.  .  .  . 

The  stars  were  high  over  the  town  which  lay  silent 
in  sleep,  but  Barnacles  was  awake  watching  the  glow 
of  Glasgow  on  the  sky.  He  heard  the  hours  strike  ; 
and  sometimes  the  coughing  of  the  old  seaman.  Some 
one  sighed  deeply.  Skelly  or  the  old  man,  he  could 
not  determine.  Then  all  these  things  died  away,  and 
silence  fiUed  the  darkness.  Barnacles'  heart  was  full 
of  joy.  He  was  thinking  of  the  tremendous  pleasure 
the  old  man  would  soon  be  afforded.  It  had  been  a 
dream  for  five  years,  this  jacket.     Sadness  fell  on 


222  BARNACLES 

Barnacles.  To-morrow  or  the  next  day  he  would  have 
his  heart's  desire.  Then  he  would  have  nothing  left  to 
dream  for. 

*  Without  hopes  and  dreams  we  are  dead,'  he 
whispered.  And  he  thought  of  a  white  head  and  deep 
velvet  eyes  like  a  caress.  He  remembered  she  had 
seen  him  at  the  baby's  grave.  The  calm  within  his 
soul  was  as  the  calm  of  prayer  as  he  thought  how 
wonderful  she  was.  .  .  . 

'  0  Nicol !  Nicol !  a  nameless  grave.'  Mrs.  Gilfillan 
was  sobbing  at  that  moment  on  the  breast  of  her 
husband.  The  banker's  arms  were  around  her ;  his 
eyes  were  shut,  and  his  teeth  clenched. 


II 

Barnacles  expected  the  pilot  reefer  jacket  and  boots 
for  several  days,  and  when  they  did  not  arrive  he  went 
to  Castlehead.  The  banker  was  at  business,  and  his 
wife  from  home. 

*  Some  days  have  no  luck  at  all,'  he  said  to  the 
maid. 

She  giggled  at  him,  thinking  he  was  preparing  to 
flu't ;  but  was  disillusioned  when  he  asked  her  if  she 
could  tell  him  where  Mrs.  Normanshire  lived.  She 
indicated  the  large  wooden  door. 

He  was  shown  into  a  room  by  a  sharp -voiced, 
sharp-featured,  red-haired  woman.  Mrs.  Normanshire 
rose  and  came  forward  to  him  with  outstretched 
hand : 

*  I  am  glad  you  have  come.* 
Barnacles'  face  lit  up. 


BARNACLES  223 

*  It  is  astonishing,'  he  burst  out,  *  how  things  happen. 
A  few  days  ago  I  was  all  alone  in  Paisley.  The  walls 
looked  down  at  me,  and  the  doors  were  all  shut,  and 
every  one  was  in  a  hurry.  Now  you  are  glad  to  see 
me.  Is  it  not  wonderful  1  Doors  are  opening  every- 
where. Men  can't  help  it.  They  can't  keep  these 
doors  closed.    We  need  each  other.' 

She  had  meant  to  add  that  she  was  glad  in  order  to 
know  to  what  address  she  might  send  the  boots  and 
jacket ;  but  his  strange  words  made  her  ashamed  to 
say  this  now. 

*  I  hope,  Mr.  Brocklehurst,  that  no  matter  what  doors 
open  you  won't  forget  Mr.  Gilfillan's  and  mine.  He 
has  a  very  great  respect  for  you.' 

*  I  could  never  do  that,'  he  said  fervently ;  *  you  have 
a  great  influence  on  my  life.  I  am  poor.  I  am  not 
clever.  You  cannot  understand  what  it  means  to  me 
to  be  in  your  house.  I  see  that  to  the  truly  great  there 
are  no  ignorant  persons,  no  poor  men.  You  teach  me 
every  time  I  see  you.' 

She  was  distressed  at  this  personal  note,  and  anxious 
to  change  the  conversation. 

*  Mr.  Gilfillan  has  told  me  that  you  play  the  violin.' 

*  Yes,  in  Cotton  Street ;  that  is  where  I  live.  I  get 
sad  at  what  I  see  there.  Then  I  make  the  violin  cry. 
It  lifts  me  away  ;  but  I  feel  afterwards  it  is  cowardly. 
Skelly  stands  it  without  any  violin.' 

*  I  think  you  get  saddened  too  easily,'  she  said  in 
grave  tones ;  *  you  are  too  sensitive.' 

The  blue  eyes  shone  fuU  of  light. 

'  I  have  done  nothing  to  deserve  that  you  should 
think  of  me  at  all.  It  is  a  great  honour  that  I  should 
be  in  your  mind  as  one  that  is  sensitive.' 


224  BARNACLES 

She  was  puzzled. 

*  Surely  I  may  think  that.' 

'  I  have  only  been  in  my  father's  mind  in  anger ; 
and  other  people,  when  1  ask  them  for  work,  look  at 
me  as  if  I  were  a  thief  and  jest  at  me.  You  thuik  of 
me  as  sensitive.    It  warms  my  being.' 

His  words  were  opening  new  vistas  to  her  ;  but  she 
was  still  puzzled. 

*  You  are  sensitive—too  much,'  she  insisted. 

'  It  doesn't  matter  ;  no,  it  doesn't  matter  ;  so  long 
as  I  am  in  your  thought  that  way — that  is  everything. 
I  did  not  expect  it.  But  I  am  not  sensitive.  I  just 
get  into  a  rage  when  I  see  children  barefooted  and 
begging,  or  when  the  funerals  of  the  poor  go  by. 
They  have  not  died  for  anjrthing.  They  have  not 
given  up  music  and  books  and  paintings  and  fine 
houses.  Nothing  fades  from  their  eyes  when  they 
die  but  hunger  and  cold,  blows  and  weariness.  They 
just  pass  away  like  a  mist.  There  's  no  one  even  lift- 
ing his  hands  to  God  for  them.  They  die  like  Skelly's 
pony.  Their  coffin  goes  from  an  empty  house  and 
carries  away  an  empty  life.  Some  day  they  will 
perhaps  die  hard  when  they  leave  something  fine 
behind.  It  is  the  only  way — to  die  hard.  I  get  angry 
when  I  see  their  desolate  coffins.  Do  you  not  think 
they  are  desolate  because  the  world  is  facing  the  wrong 
way  and  is  only  walking  to  heartache  ? ' 

He  searched  her  face  with  mute  expectation. 

She  shook  her  head. 

*  I  don't  know ;  we  are  forced  to  go.'  A  slight 
shudder  ran  through  her  body.  '  Some  to  heartache, 
some  to  joy.' 

*  If  some  great  one  came  and  told  us  so  that  we  saw 


BARNACLES  225 

clearly,  we  would  all  turn  and  face  another  way  and 
everything  would  begm  to  get  better.  But  men  are 
blind  and  cruel,  they  hurt  one  another  because  they 
can't  see.' 

'  Yes,  we  hurt  one  another  dreadfully,'  she  said, 
with  a  catch  in  her  voice.  Her  face  had  become 
deadly  white. 

'  But  men  do  not  mean  it,'  his  voice  rang  out  clearly  ; 
'  they  mean  well ;  they  are  doing  their  best ;  we  are 
facing  the  wrong  way — that  is  all,  leaving  blood  in  our 
tracks.  If  a  voice  would  only  cry  from  the  heavens 
in  the  stillness  of  some  night,  and  all  the  world  were  to 
hear  and  waken  and  turn  right  about ' — he  jumped  to 
his  feet,  his  body  all  trembling,  and  lifted  up  his  hands 
— '  we  would  be  redeemed.' 

She  saw  that  he  was  suffering  intense  agony. 

*  Mr.  Brocklehurst,'  she  said  soothingly,  '  won't  you 
let  me  hear  you  play  your  violin  ?  I  am  very  fond  of 
music.  Some  evening  when  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Gilfillan  are 
here.' 

'  No  !  no  !  I  could  not  play  before  you.  I  can  only 
play  to  simple  people — to  children  and  old  men.' 

*  Am  I  not  simple  ?  ' 

He  turned  eyes  of  wonder  upon  her. 

*  You — ^you,'  he  stammered, '  you  are  like  a  multitude 
to  me,  a  whole  city.  When  I  look  at  other  people  I 
see  in  their  face  what  I  expect ;  when  I  look  at  you  ' — 
he  made  a  gesture  expressing  his  impotence.  His 
words  were  perilous  but  rare.  She  could  not  help 
herself. 

'  At  me  ?  '  she  asked  in  a  low  voice. 
'  You  are  always  new  to  me,'  he  answered  joyfully, 
*  as  the  stars  are  new  every  night ;  as  the  music  of  my 

p 


226  BARNACLES 

violin  is  new.'  His  face  was  full  of  rapture  and  she 
was  listening  with  half -parted  lips.  '  You  will  never 
grow  old.  I  am  not  worthy  that  you  should  think 
of  me.' 

Slowly  a  tide  of  crimson  rose  over  her  face.  She 
covered  her  burning  cheeks  with  her  hands,  and  spoke 
between  them. 

*  You  must  not  say  these  things.' 

He  was  dumbfounded,  his  face  became  like  a  scared 
chUd's. 

'  Have  I  hurt  you  ?  '  he  stooped  towards  her. 

*  No,  no — sit  down — please  sit  down ;  you  do  not 
understand  ;  we  are  facing  the  wrong  way ' 

It  cost  her  a  great  effort  to  say  this. 
He  obeyed  her,  and  leaning  towards  her  spoke  as 
one  is  used  in  teaching  a  chUd. 

*  How  can  I  be  facing  the  wrong  way  ?  1  am  facing 
Life  ;  I  am  finding  Life.  I  had  to  leave  my  father's 
home,  a  wanderer ;  but  now  I  am  not  an  outcast  any 
more  ;  you  are  like  a  city  to  me.' 

'  Please,  please  do  not  speak  that  way ' ;  her  voice 
was  full  of  distress.  '  You  must  not ;  you  do  not  know 
what  you  say ;  speak  about  something  else.  What 
made  you  leave  your  father's  home  ?  ' 

She  looked  as  if  she  was  about  to  flee  from  him.  He 
felt  he  had  alarmed  her. 

'  I  will  go  away,'  he  said ;  *  I  am  very  stupid.  I  do 
not  know  how  to  speak  to  a  lady.  My  mother  is  dead 
long  ago.' 

Tears  came  into  her  eyes. 

*  Don't  go ;  you  are  not  stupid.  Tell  me — why  you 
left  home.' 

He  sighed  deeply.    *  1  took  one  of  my  father's  sheep, 


BARNACLES  227 

and  sold  it  to  buy  a  violin.    He  is  very  hard.    He 
quarreUed  with  me,  and  I  became  homeless.' 

The  tempest  in  her  bosom  was  subsiding.  She 
dared  not  let  her  eyes  rest  on  his  face. 

*  That  was  wrong  of  you,'  she  said. 
His  face  flushed. 

'  It  is  hard  for  me  to  give  reasons  to  you,'  his  lips 
were  quivering,  '  but  I  must  teU  you  that  I  worked 
without  pay.' 

'  But  stUl  you  were  wrong — if  only  you  knew  how 
wrong.  It  is  not  worth  while  quarrelling  with  your 
father  for  the  sake  of  a  violin  or  a  thousand  violins. 
If  your  father  died  you  would  understand.  You  would 
come  to  hate  the  violin.' 

This  was  a  terrible  revelation  to  him. 

'  I  withstood  him — I  had  a  poker  in  my  hand,'  he 
burst  out  miserably. 

'  Have  you  seen  him  since  ?  ' 

Barnacles  did  not  hear  the  question.  He  was 
conscious  that  she  was  saving  him  from  a  great  sin. 
He  wanted  to  go  down  on  his  knees  to  her. 

*  Why  !  why  did  I  not  know  you  long  ago  ? '  he 
groaned. 

*  Never  mind  that,'  her  voice  breathed  out  tenderness. 
*  Is  it  right  that  you  have  never  gone  back  to  him  ? 
Think  of  the  thousands  who  have  no  father — ^no  father 
— ^and  would  give  the  world  to  have  one.' 

Barnacles  looked  at  her  with  sorrowing  eyes.  *  Your 
father  is  dead,'  he  said. 

She  bowed  her  head. 

'  God  forgive  me,'  he  cried,  *  I  only  thought  of  the 
violin.     I  wUl  go  to  my  father.     He  is  old  and  grey.' 

She  detained  him  with  her  hand  on  his  sleeve. 


22«  BARNACLES 

*  Go  only  with  justice — when  you  can  repay  for  the 
sheep.' 

*  Yes,  you  are  right,  right ;  it  will  be  the  proof  of  my 
conscience ;  I  must  get  work.  I  will  play  on  the  street, 
anything.     He  might  die  to-night.' 

She  smiled  up  at  him.  '  Did  you  not  come  to  Mr. 
Gilfillan  about  work  ?  ' 

He  looked  round  about  him  as  if  he  expected  to  see 
the  banker.  That  evening  when  he  went  to  Mr. 
Gilfillan's  came  back  to  his  mind. 

'  1  forgot.  "  The  old  man  must  have  a  coat,"  I  was 
saying  to  myself  as  I  came.  The  twilight  was  coming. 
It  was  like  a  mist  aU  round  me,  the  twiUght,  and  the 
past  weeks  came  out  of  the  mist  with  all  my  wanderings 
and  misfortunes.  I  think  it  was  because  there  was  a 
mist  when  the  sheep  and  I  left  my  father's  home.  I 
thought  I  would  never  be  able  to  get  the  boots  for  the 
boy  and  the  pilot  jacket.  I  am  sorry  for  the  old  sailor. 
He  lives  in  a  corner.  He  is  afraid  of  offending  his  son. 
He  is  very  sensitive,  and  his  son  loves  him  all  the  time. 
It  is  so  sad  sometimes.     I  could  run  away.' 

His  words  wrung  her  heart.  He  was  like  a  lost  child, 
and  she  dared  not  comfort  him. 

*  Are  you  not  forgetting  again  about  your  work,  and 
that  you  have  to  pay  for  the  sheep  ? ' 

He  gazed  at  her  in  wonder. 

*  I  think  Heaven  sent  me  here  for  you  to  teach  me 
— and  you  are  not  ashamed — I  feel  it — ^you  are  not 
ashamed  to  speak  to  me.' 

*  Why  should  I  be  ashamed  ?  ' 

*  I  am  a  thief.'  He  covered  his  face  with  his  hands. 
*  If  only  Skelly  had  told  me  or  some  one  else ;  not 
you,  not  you.' 


BARNACLES  229 

Her  heart  filled  with  pity. 

*  You  're  not  a  thief  :  you  were  simply  putting  a 
violin  before  your  father,'  she  answered  in  fierce 
defence ;  and  rising,  added,  *  Go  on  Friday  evening 
and  see  Mr.  Gilfillan.  He  has  got  work  for  you.  Do 
not  go  away  tUl  you  know  what  it  is.' 

*  Will  I  see  you  there  again  ?  '  he  gulped,  at  the 
same  time  rising.  She  remained  silent  with  down- 
cast eyes.  A  struggle  was  going  on  in  her  mind.  At 
length  she  raised  her  eyes  and  gave  him  a  fleeting 
look. 

'  If  you  will  bring  your  violin  I — will  hear — ^you — 
play.'  Her  cheeks  went  on  fire  again.  She  was 
conscious  that  for  her  own  sake  she  had  spoken. 

With  a  swift  movement  he  seized  one  of  her  hands. 

*  Then  you  are  not  ashamed  of  me  ?  '  he  cried. 
'  No  !  I  am  not  ashamed.' 

He  did  not  seem  to  know  what  to  do  with  her  hand. 
He  made  a  movement  as  if  to  carry  it  to  his  lips,  but 
checked  himself,  put  his  other  hand  on  the  back  of 
hers,  and  so  held  it  a  moment  within  his  two. 

She  made  no  effort  to  withdraw  her  hand. 

In  this  way  they  parted. 

When  he  was  gone  she  remained  rooted  to  the  spot, 
staring  in  front  of  her,  her  eyes  charged  with  sorrow. 
She  was  hearing  again  and  again  his  words,  '  I  am  not 
an  outcast  any  more.' 

When  Barnacles  reached  the  wooden  door  in  the 
wall  and  was  about  to  open  it,  he  turned  his  face 
towards  the  house  and  cried  :  *  May  the  hand  of  God 
be  the  roof  over  her  head  ! ' 


230  BARNACLES 


m 


As  soon  as  Barnacles  arrived  on  Friday  at  the  house 
of  Mr.  Gilfillan  he  asked  for  Mrs.  Normanshire. 

*  She  's  not  here  ;  she  's  got  a  headache,  my  son/ 
the  banker  answered. 

Barnacles  looked  as  if  he  had  been  struck  a  blow. 
'  I  think  you  have  got  work  for  me,'  he  said. 

'  It 's  not  much  of  a  job,  but  you  '11  earn  an  honest 
living.' 

'  Is  it  true  ?  '  he  asked. 

*  What  ?  ' 

'  An  honest  living  ? ' 

*  True,  of  course ;  I  'm  not  going  to  ask  you  to 
steal.' 

Barnacles  smiled  at  the  banker.  '  It  is  terrible  to 
ask  for  this  honest  work.  They  beat  you  down.  I 
feel  I  am  being  bought  and  sold.  Is  it  not  a  new 
slavery  ?  ' 

*  Nonsense,'  said  the  banker;  *a  price  is  put  on  what 
you  can  do,  that 's  all.  What 's  the  use  of  bothering 
more  about  it.' 

*  I  don't  feel  that  way.  I  see  a  fierceness  among  men 
over  this  honest  work.  It  is  red  with  blood.  The 
slaves  are  tethered  to  it.  You  can  hear  their  chains 
rattling  in  the  cities.' 

'  Hut-tut ;  you  mean  you  can  hear  the  chink  of 
money  on  pay-day.' 

*  I  see  them  come  out  of  the  engineering  shops  and 
the  mills  ' — his  eyes  were  blazing — *  miles  of  men  and 
girls,  and  no  light  in  their  faces,  no  laughter  ;  all 
hurrying,  I  hear  their  boots  on  the  pavements.     It  ia 


BARNACLES  231 

like  the  noise  of  battle.  No,  no,'  he  was  wringing  his 
hands  with  nervous  excitement,  '  I  am  wrong.  It  is 
not  battle.  Men  go  to  battle  with  a  glow  on  their 
souls.  The  faces  of  that  tide  are  as  sad  and  hopeless 
as  ghosts.  I  shall  be  one  of  them.  It  makes  me 
glad  ;  it  gives  me  courage.' 

*  Humph  !  '  said  the  banker,  *  they  don't  feel  like 
that ;  they  're  glad  of  the  work.' 

*  They  go  out  in  the  fog  and  frost  at  six  in  the  morn- 
ing. I  saw  them  when  I  was  burying  a  pony.  Their 
white  faces  were  sadder  than  death.' 

'  Somebody  has  to  do  it.' 

'  No,'  he  said  earnestly :  '  look  at  this  room :  you  don't 
need  the  half  of  aU  this.  The  world  is  fuU  of  luxuries. 
It  is  because  of  them  that  half  the  human  race  doesn't 
get  enough  rest.  We  are  not  simple  enough.  A  woman 
next  door  to  me  died  for  want  of  rest.' 

The  banker  burst  out  laughing. 

*  Are  we  all  to  lie  in  bed  in  the  morning  ?  I  think 
we  '11  return  you  a  member  for  Parliament.' 

'  You  are  laughing  at  me.  I  know  I  am  very 
ignorant.' 

'  Pardon  me,'  said  the  banker,  wiping  his  eyes  with 
a  coloured  handkerchief. 

Barnacles  fixed  his  eyes  on  the  banker's  face  with  an 
imwavering  gaze. 

'  You  ought  to  laugh  instead  at  your  gold  chain,'  he 
said. 

*  Eh  ! '  ejaculated  the  banker,  with  sober  face  and 
voice. 

*  It  is  a  useless  thing.  Some  one  has  to  rise  early  to 
make  it.' 

*  My  good  fellow,    I  don't  take   that   personally ; 


232  BARNACLES 

but  all  the  same  I  wouldn't  air  these  views  if  I  were 
you.    You  '11  get  into  trouble.' 

'  But  I  meant  it  to  be  personal.' 

For  a  moment  they  looked  at  one  another  in  silence. 
A  gleam  came  into  Mr.  GilfiUan's  eyes,  and  he  coloured. 

*  Mr.  Brocklehurst,'  he  said,  in  an  angry  tone,  '  it 's 
plain  that  we  are  friends.' 

Barnacles'  face  became  radiant. 

*  I  am  glad  you  didn't  get  angry.  You  would  have 
been  sorry  for  yourself  when  I  went  away.  That  would 
have  grieved  me.' 

*  Oh  !  damn  it  all,'  cried  the  banker,  stamping  his 
foot,  '  let 's  have  no  more  of  this  socialism  or  whatever 
it  is.  You  said  you  would  be  glad  to  be  among  the  folk 
that  go  out  in  the  morning.  Well,  you  won't.  I  've  got 
a  job  for  you  in  the  Town  Clerk's  office.  It 's  an  honest 
living,'  there  was  heat  in  the  banker's  voice  ;  '  you  're 
not  bought  and  sold.     Be  at  the  office  at  eight  sharp.' 

*  Where  is  the  office,  please  ?  ' 

The  banker  took  his  pipe  from  his  mouth,  and  made 
a  curve  in  the  air. 

'  Beside  the  jyle  ;  see  and  don't  mistake  the  door.' 
The  banker's  laughter  cleared  the  air. 

Barnacles'  eyes  twinkled.  *  I  was  nearly  there 
once,'  he  said,  '  over  the  sheep.'  All  at  once  his  face 
became  grave.  *  That  reminds  me  that  I  came  to  see 
you  about  something  important  to-night.  Will  you 
forgive  me  if  I  ask  for  it  ? ' 

Mr.  GUfillan  was  tremendously  pleased  at  the  request, 
and  the  frank  way  it  was  made. 

'  Hope  you  don't  want  a  rise  already,'  he  laughed. 

*  I  wish  you  to  give  me  a  photograph  of  Mrs.  Norman- 
shire.' 


BARNACLES  233 

Mr.  Gilfillan's  face  puckered  into  a  whistle  of  amaze- 
ment. 

*  What  do  you  want  that  f or  1  ' 

*  She  told  me  I  must  restore  a  sheep  to  my  father. 
I  didn't  think  I  was  doing  wrong.  I  have  felt  since  she 
told  me  that  I  should  like  to  do  something  for  her.' 

These  simple  words  took  the  banker's  breath  away. 

*  By  Jiminy  !  I  beUeve  she  would  appreciate  it,  Mr. 
Brocklehurst.  It  is  she  who  is  usually  doing  things  for 
other  people.     Stay  here  till  I  come  back.' 

He  was  gone  a  considerable  time,  and  returned 
stepping  softly. 

*  Here  you  are,  my  fellow  conspirator.  This  is 
purloined.  When  the  day  comes  that  it  is  missed,  I'll 
leave  you  to  explain  to  my  wife.'  The  banker  was 
washing  his  hands  with  a  solemn  air. 

Barnacles  was  holding  up  the  photograph  of  the  girl 
near  his  nose. 

*  There  is  nothing  here,'  he  said,  *  but  gladness  and 
wonder  ;  the  eyes  are  radiant.  Surely  her  face  is 
changed.'  He  looked  over  the  photograph  at  the  banker. 

*  Put  it  away  and  don't  tell  any  one  you  have  got  it. 
I  put  you  on  your  honour.' 

'  I  have  no  need  to  tell,'  answered  Barnacles.  He 
put  the  photograph  in  his  pocket.  '  I  shall  now  bid  you 
good-night.' 

'  Got  everything  you  want  ? '  the  banker's  eyes  were 
dancing  in  his  head. 

'  Yes,  except  that  I  should  like  you  to  tell  me  what 
I  can  do  for  her.' 

*  Give  her  a  wee  dog  with  a  blue  ribbon  round  its 
neck,'  and  laughing  hilariously  the  banker  took 
Barnacles  by  the  arm  and  led  him  to  the  front  door. 


234  BARNACLES 

*  See  and  don't  forget  to  turn  up  at  eight  in  the 
morning — ^next  door  to  the  jyle.' 

As  soon  as  Barnacles  passed  out  of  the  gate,  he 
walked  across  the  road  to  a  street  lamp,  took  out  the 
photograph,  and  gazed  at  it.  A  man  who  was  passing 
saw  him  press  it  to  his  lips. 


IV 

Barnacles  discovered  that  employment  leads  to 
many  side-issues,  and  that  work  is  not  a  self-centred 
thing,  but  has  an  extraordinary  leaven  in  it  begetting 
problems,  dilemmas,  and  confusions.  There  was,  for 
instance,  Skelly's  attitude  suddenly  sprung  on  him, 
when  he  was  advised  to  find  more  becoming  lodgings. 

Barnacles  opened  blue  eyes  of  astonishment  on  his 
friend. 

*  What  is  this  for  ? ' 

'  It  'U  no'  dae  very  weel  to  bide  here.' 

*  But  I  do  not  wish  to  go  to  other  houses  or  among 
other  people.     I  am  happy  here.     This  house  is  as  if 
I  had  found  a  home  and  a  brother  and  a  father. 
Kitchener  is  my  little  son.' 

*  Please  yersel,'  said  SkeUy  gruffly.  '  They  'U  mak  a 
fule  o'  ye  in  the  office  when  they  fin'  oot  ye  're  bidin' 
in  Cotton  Street.' 

*  I  cannot  leave  you  and  the  boy,'  answered  Barnacles 
quite  stubbornly. 

*  Weel,'  answered  SkeUy  sternly,  '  ye  're  no'  to  be 
spendin'  money  on  him.  Ye  're  nane  that  weel  put 
on.  Ye  '11  hae  to  look  braw  an'  smart  in  the  office. 
Gather  up  for  a  new  suit  o'  claes.' 


BARNACLES  285 

These  words  started  a  new  train  of  thought  in 
Barnacles'  mind. 

*  I  am  needing  money,  Skelly,  to  buy  a  sheep.  Do 
you  know  where  I  can  get  one  the  same  as  the  one  I 
sold  to  you  ? ' 

Skelly  was  brushing  his  boots.  He  laid  the  boot  on 
a  chair  and  stood  brush  in  hand  regarding  Barnacles. 

'  The  same,'  a  quizzical  look  came  into  his  face, 
*  same  eyes,  same  feet,  same  whiskers  ?  Man,  Barnacles, 
ye  mak  me  forget  whiles  I  'm  wearit.' 

'  Yes  !   the  same  size,  I  mean.' 

Skelly  pondered. 

*  I  forgot  to  tak  her  measure,'  he  said. 

*  I  intend  to  return  the  animal  to  my  father.  I 
do  not  wish  him  to  suffer.  It  must  not  be  a  smaller 
sheep.' 

*  Are  ye  daft,  man  ?  ' 

*  I  had  no  right  to  take  the  sheep.' 

*  Did  ye  no'  work  for  her  ?     Ye  telt  me  sae  ?  ' 

'  You  do  not  understand,  SkeUy  ;  I  was  putting  a 
violin  higher  than  my  father.  There  are  many  violins. 
There  is  only  one  father.  Neither  you  nor  I  saw  this, 
SkeUy.' 

*  Did  we  no'  ?  '  Skelly's  face  was  wrinkled  with 
sarcasm.  '  Maybe  it  wasna  worth  seein'.  An  auld 
fiddle 's  better  nor  many  a  blaiggard  that 's  goin'  aboot 
in  shoe  leather.' 

*  I  cannot  put  it  to  you  properly,  Skelly.  Mrs. 
Normanshire  opened  my  eyes.  I  felt  like  a  criminal — 
she  was  not  ashamed  of  me  because  I  am  a  thief.' 

*  Wha  said  ye  wir  a  thief  ?  '  snarled  Skelly. 

*  No  one,  no  one.'  Barnacles  was  becoming  excited, 
and  began  walking  up  and  down  the  room.  '  She  showed 


236  BARNACLES 

me  great  kindness  and  respect.    No  woman  was  ever 

kind  to  me  before — I  wanted  to  kiss  her  hand ' 

Skelly's  face  betrayed  signs  of  many  emotions. 

*  See  here,  Barnacles,'  he  said,  his  eyes  darkening, 

*  you  're  only  a  wean  ;  don't  you  go  kissin'  the  hand 
o'  a  mairrit  wumman.' 

*  She  's  not  married,  but  it  does  not  matter.  My 
heart  was  full  of  gratitude — I  wanted  to  kiss  her  feet, 
her  shoes — I  do  not  deserve  her  trust — I  felt  as  if  the 
people  in  the  street  were  looking  at  me  to-day.  I 
wonder  what  they  would  have  said  if  they  had  known 
how  gracious  she  has  been  to  me.'  He  ceased  tramping 
about  and  put  his  hands  on  his  face.  *  1  am  ugly, 
Skelly — I  am  poor — I  have  no  friend  but  you — but  she 
was  not  ashamed — she  is  so  gentle  and  longsuffering 
— her  smile  is  fuU  of  patience,  her  eyes  are  deep  with 
sorrow — she  used  to  be  nothing  but  radiance — I  know.' 

*  See  here,  my  son,'  said  Skelly,  '  what  did  ye  ca' 
her?' 

'  Mrs.  Normanshu'e.' 

*  An'  she  's  no'  mairrit  ?  ' 
'No.' 

Skelly  gave  a  prolonged  whistle. 

*  Look  out,  Barnacles  ;  a  weeda  's  the  deevH  an'  a'. 
Is  she  young  ?  * 

*  I  do  not  know  her  age  ;  she  is  kind  and  very  wise. 
She  showed  me  how  wrongly  I  treated  my  father.  If 
you  please,  SkeUy,  can  you  get  me  the  proper  sort  of 
sheep  ?     I  will  have  no  peace  till  I  restore  it.' 

'  A'  richt,'  answered  Skelly.    He  picked  up  the  boot. 

*  I  like  when  thae  weedas  begin'  advisin'  young  fellas 
aboot  their  conduck.  I  '11  get  the  sheep  ;  we  '11  ca'  it 
the  weeda's  sheep,  Barnacles.' 


BARNACLES  287 

'  I  beg  your  pardon,  Skelly.' 

*  I  was  sayin','  Skelly  held  the  brush  in  mid-ahr, 
*  that  thon  sheep  's  gaun  to  lead  ye  a  bonnie  dance  ' 
— he  gave  Barnacles  a  most  prodigious  wink.  '  Dae 
as  she  tells  ye.  Ye  did  wrang  to  your  faither,  I  'm 
dootin'  ;  but  tak  my  advice  an'  dinna  clype  to  him 
aboot  her  ;  he  '11  maybe  win  in  ahead  o'  ye  ;  it 's  no' 
the  first  time  such  a  thing  has  happened.' 

*  Don't,  Skelly  ;  it  hurts  me.' 

*  Holy  sailor  !  '  cried  SkeUy,  in  amazement,  '  are  ye 
fond  o'  her,  man  ?  ' 

'  Who  could  help  being  fond  of  her  ? '  A  beautiful 
smile  broke  over  his  face  :  .it  shone  on  wet  eyelashes 
like  the  sun  glinting  on  raindrops.  '  If  you  only  saw  her 
and  listened  to  her,  you  would  worship  her,  SkeUy.' 

'  Then  by  damn ! '  and  SkeUy  brought  down  the  back 
of  the  brush  on  his  boot,  '  I  see  fine  you  an'  her  'Ul  mak 
a  match  o't.    Ye  're  a  pair.' 

Barnacles'  eyes  contracted  as  if  a  blow  from  Skelly's 
hand  were  imminent.  His  face  was  defenceless  as  a 
child's  and  as  feeble. 

*  You  frighten  me,'  he  whispered. 

His  face  had  suddenly  become  parched.  It  looked 
as  if  the  blow  had  fallen. 


There  was  also  a  side-issue  in  the  flamboyant  person 
of  the  widow  Beezle.  An  umbrella  and  black  cotton 
gloves  were  laid  on  the  polished  counter  of  the  outer 
office  of  the  Town  Clerk  of  Paisley,  and  two  bright  eyes 
looked  around.    The  place  being  empty,  she  knocked 


238  BARNACLES 

sharply  with  the  umbrella.  A  young  man  appeared, 
leaned  his  elbows  on  the  counter,  and  knitted  his  hands. 
There  was  an  air  of  sleepiness  about  him.  He  conde- 
scended on  a  dry  official  cough. 

'  This  place  might  have  been  robbed,'  the  lady 
opened  fire. 

*  What  can  I  do  for  you  ? '  came  the  brusque  counter. 
The  lady's  lip  curled  and  her  nostrils  curled. 

*  Remove  the  cats  ;  I  smeU  them.' 
'  And  the  rats  ;  see  the  joke  !  ' 
She  bridled. 

*  Get  traps  ;  cats  are  filthy  ;  they  carry  disease.' 
She  wiped  the  immaculate  counter  with  a  glove.  *  This 
place  is  frowsy.' 

'  It  is  not  the  hour  of  spring-cleaning.  Do  you  wish 
to  invest  money  in  the  Paisley  Corporation  ? ' — this  was 
a  common  traffic — '  if  not,  state  your  busmess.' 

An  arm  shot  out,  and  a  finger  levelled. 

'  Young  man,  ask  your  Maker  to  give  you  judgment. 
Do  I  look  like  a  person  with  money  ?  I  want  a  young 
man  by  the  name  of  Barnacles.' 

'  This  is  not  a  lost  relatives  office  ;  I  don't  know  any 
such  person.' 

*  That  is  your  misfortune.'  The  face,  fierce  and 
sharp  as  an  arrow,  seemed  to  the  clerk  to  be 
bearing  down  upon  him.  He  took  a  step  back  from 
the  counter. 

'  Stop,  young  man  ;  I  have  worn  red  hair  for  fifty 
years,  and  am  not  going  to  be  put  off  by  a  pancake. 
The  voipe  shrilled,  '  Are  you  not  a  public  servant  ?  I 
am  the  Public.  I  am  seeking  this  young  man  Barnacles. 
When  I  got  to  know  him,  I  said, "  Dear  God,  I  thank  you 
for  this  fellowship."     He  is  gentle,  wise,  and  patient  as 


BARNACLES  239 

the  dead  iii  their  graves.  He  is  an  example  to  the  young 
men  of  Paisley.' 

'  If  you  have  no  other  business,  I  must  go  away. 
The  court  is  sitting.     I  am  needed  in  the  jail.' 

'  So  you  are  ;  so  you  are.  Go,  young  man  ;  take 
the  cats  with  you  there,  and  send  me  your  superior. 
Pray  to  your  Maker  for  wisdom.' 

The  clerk  dived  through  a  doorway. 

*  There  's  a  woman  in  the  front  office  wants  to  see 
you,'  he  said  to  his  chief ;  *  she  's  out  of  a  cage  or  a 
pantomime.' 

The  chief  appeared  whistUng  softly.  He  had  a 
genial  grey  eye.  When  it  saw  Mrs.  Beezle  he  came 
forward  courteously,  and  leaning  over  the  counter 
thrust  a  solicitous  face  towards  her. 

*  Your  servant,  madame  ;   your  pleasure.' 

*  My  first  pleasure  is  to  ask  you  to  chastise  that  young 
fool  who  was  here  a  moment  ago.  What  are  young  men 
coming  to  nowadays  ?     He  needs  to  shave.' 

'  I  often  ask  myself  that  question  too.  He  shall  be 
chastised,  madame,  with  rigour.' 

Mrs.  Beezle  was  moUified. 

'  I  find  it  more  agreeable  to  converse  with  people 
of  some  age,'  and  she  beamed. 

*  You  flatter  me,  madame.' 

'  I  don't.  Have  you  a  young  man  of  the  name  of 
Barnacles  here  ? '  She  thrust  her  face  in  turn  at  the 
other's.     '  No  temptation  ;  no  temptation.' 

*  Yes,'  politely. 

*  No,'  she  snapped. 

*  No  !   certainly  not ;   no  temptation  I  assure  you.' 

*  He  is  an  excellent  young  man  ;  he  is  just  like  a 
baby  to  nurse  on  your  knee  ;   no  temptation.' 


240  BARNACLES 

'  None,  madame,  none.' 

*  Just  what  I  told  my  mistress — a  baby  to  nurse.  I 
thank  God  for  him.  ' 

*  And  did  your  mistress — ^ah  !  pardon  me — take  your 
advice  ?  ' 

Mrs.  Beezle's  face  was  convulsed.  Her  arm  shot  out. 
'  My  mistress,  sir,  is  married.' 

'  A  thousand  pardons.  In  this  matter  of  knees,  I 
took  it  that  your  mistress  is  single,  young  and  beautiful,' 
the  chief  said,  in  urbane  tones. 

'  You  waste  my  time.  She  is  young  and  beautiful. 
Produce  the  young  man  Barnacles.' 

The  chief  coughed. 

'  I  have  aU  the  mind  in  the  world  to  oblige  you.  It 
is  possible  the  man  you  want  may  be  here.  I  do  not 
imagine  you  would  make  a  mistake  ;  but  he  is  not 
known  by  that  name.' 

'  The  young  man,'  she  corrected. 

'  They  are  all  young  except  me,'  his  eyes  looked 
roguish.     . 

She  gave  him  a  sudden  jab  on  the  shoulder. 

*  You  are  not  bald  or  blind.  You  are  fresh-looking. 
You  have  a  firm  step.' 

*  Thank  you,  madame,'  he  made  a  deep  bow,  '  your 
kind  words  are  elixir  to  me.  Will  you  be  so  good  as 
to  describe  the  young  man  Barnacles  also.  We  shall 
perhaps  arrive  at  him  in  this  way.' 

Mrs.  Beezle  threw  up  her  hands. 

*  He  is  as  tall  as  a  tree,  straight,  blue-eyed  ;  he 
always  looks  at  you  as  if  he  was  expecting  you  to  bless 
him.' 

*  Has  he  got — er — ^blotches  on  his  face  ? ' 

*  I  never  saw  them.' 


BARNACLES  241 

*  Nevertheless,  I  think  I  know  who  you  mean.  I 
will  send  him  to  you.  May  I  ask,  if  you  are  his  friend, 
to  hint  that  he  pay  just  a  little  more  attention  to 
his  work  ?  He  appears  to  indulge  in  dreams  and 
reverie.' 

*  Ach  ! '  she  snorted,  '  machines  can  attend  to  work. 
Let  him  dream.  It  will  be  good  for  this  place.  Every- 
thing is  frowsy  and  smells  of  cats.* 

The  chief  moved  away. 

'  Speaking  by  the  nose,  I  believe  you  are  correct ; 
but  cats  must  live  as  weU  as  those  that  dream.' 

*  And  rats,'  she  echoed  the  clerk. 

The   chief,   disappearing,   said   over   his    shoulder, 

*  They  die — out  of  time.' 

As  soon  as  Barnacles'  tall  form  came  in  sight,  she 
threw  up  her  two  hands. 

*  0  my  dear,  my  dear,  what  a  nasty  place  you 
pass  your  time  in ! ' 

He  stooped  over  her  and  took  her  two  hands  in  his. 

*  You  are  from  Mrs.  Normanshire.    Is  she  well  and 
happy  ?  ' 

'  Dear  God,'  Mrs.  Beezle  withdrew  her  hands  from 
the  warm  clasp,  and  raised  them  as  a  suppliant,  '  I 
thank  thee  I  have  found  him.  I  have  a  message  for 
you.' 

'  This  is  good  fortime,'  he  said,  his  face  all  radiant, 

*  a  message  from  her.     It  is  great  news,  Mrs.  Beezle.' 

'  It  is  no  news.     It  is  just  about  a  jacket.' 

*  It  doesn't  matter  what  it  is  about.  It  is  the 
message.  Yesterday  my  life  lay  like  a  straight  line 
between  here  and  Cotton  Street.  Nothing  caUed  me 
off  that  line.  I  was  just  like  Skelly's  pony  when  I  left 
my  work.     I   walked  straight  on  without  going   to 


242  BARNACLES 

right  or  left.  There  was  no  one  I  could  nod  to  m  the 
street.  We  were  not  meant  to  be  like  that — like  flies 
walking  across  a  string.'  He  was  looking  at  her  as 
seriously  as  a  schoolmaster  looks  at  a  pupil.  '  Now  it 
is  different.  I  have  a  sheep  to  get,  and  this  is  another 
message.  Life  is  a  triangle  now — here,  Cotton  Street, 
Castlehead.  And  she  asked  me  to  bring  my  violin. 
Dear  Mrs.  Beezle,  blossoms  are  coming  out  in  my  life. 
I  owe  it  all  to  her.' 

*  I  thank  thee,  dear  God,  for  the  wise  things  he 
teaches  me.  Do  help  me  to  make  him  blossom  and 
put  on  foliage.'     She  opened  her  eyes. 

*  You  did  not  leave  the  measurements  of  the  jacket. 
My  mistress  wants  them.  We  want  the  jacket  to  be  a 
perfect  fit.' 

*  What  measurements  ?  ' 

*  Measurements  ;  measurements  ;  measurements,' 
as  she  spoke  she  leaned  forward  and  made  play  of 
measuring  Barnacles'  arms  and  round  his  shoulders. 
*  Were  you  never  at  a  tailor  ?     You  are  to  send  them.' 

Barnacles  pondered. 

'  That  is  a  pity  ;  I  didn't  want  the  old  man  to  know. 
Surprise  is  one  of  God's  gifts.  I  see  it  sometimes  in 
wee  Kitchener's  eyes.' 

'  Well,  well,  measure  the  jacket  when  he  is  sleeping.' 

*  Oh  yes,  I  see  ;  so  I  will ;  so  I  will.  Please  tell  Mrs. 
Normanshire  I  am  arranging  about  the  sheep.  I  have 
decided  not  to  pay  my  father  the  money.  I  will  bring 
a  sheep  to  him  of  the  same  size  as  the  one  I  took  away.' 

*  Did  you  take  a  sheep  ?  ' 

*  It  was  a  lapse,  dear  Mrs.  Beezle.' 

*  What  made  you  do  it  ?  '  she  asked  severely. 

*  I  wanted  a  violin  ;  he  refused  me  wages.' 


BARNACLES  243 

'  Is  he  a  nigger  ?  ' 

*  He  is  not  generous.' 

'  Dear  God,  I  thank  you  the  lad  is  honest.'  She 
opened  her  eyes,  began  puUing  on  the  black  gloves, 
and  said  with  acerbity,  '  Send  him  a  goat.  How  are 
you  getting  on  here  ?  ' 

*  Excellently.' 

*  What  do  you  do  ?  ' 

Barnacles  took  off  his  spectacles,  and  began  scratch- 
ing his  head  with  them. 

*  It  is  work  about  water,  roads,  gas,  public  health, 
licensing.' 

*  Licensing  what  ?  ' 

'  Things  we  are  not  at  liberty  to  have — ^public -houses, 
brokers'  shops,  drivers  of  motor-cars,  hackney  carriages, 
stores  for  petroleum,  explosives,  common  lodging- 
houses,  ice-cream  shops,  dairies ' 

*  Dogs  ! '  she  ejaculated. 

*  Dogs  ;  I  am  not  sure.' 

*  All  the  trash — pawnbrokers  and  Italians.  What  was 
the  young  rascal  who  was  here  a  little  ago  going  to  do 
in  the  jail  ? ' 

*  Somebody  would  be  drunk,  perhaps,'  answered 
Barnacles. 

*  I  see !  I  see  !  they  give  licences  here  for  selling 
whisky,  and  then  when  fools  drink  it  they  take  fines 
off  them.  It  would  make  a  monkey  laugh.'  She 
pointed  her  umbrella  at  him.  *  You  are  in  droll  com- 
pany. Take  care  of  yourself.  Don't  dream  ;  and 
send  the  measurements.    Good-bye.' 

As  a  result  of  this  visit,  Barnacles  became  a  subject 
of  jest  in  the  office,  where  he  was  already  the  scapegoat. 


244  BARNACLES 

The  clerk  who  had  first  encountered  Mrs.  Beezle 
was  wounded  in  his  dignity.  He  had  once  been  mis- 
taken for  the  Town  Clerk  by  an  old  gentleman  of 
consequence  in  the  county,  who  shook  him  warmly  by 
the  hand  and  conversed  familiarly  with  him,  until  & 
chance  remark  revealed  the  mistake.  The  clerk 
never  forgot  the  occurrence.  The  memory  of  having 
tasted  the  sweets  of  authority  for  a  dizzy  moment 
remained  with  him  a  perpetual  wine  of  the  spirit.  He 
sneered  at  his  equals,  and  wore  better  clothes  now 
than  formerly.  He  carried  an  air  of  importance  and 
fussiness  even  into  the  street,  where  he  never  sauntered. 
'  To  think  that  that  red-headed  parrot  came  to 
invest  money,'  he  said  to  Barnacles. 

*  It  was  a  foolish  thought,'   answered  Barnacles ; 

*  neither  she  nor  I  possess  any.' 

The  clerk's  eyes  gleamed. 

*  Ask  for  it,'  he  snapped. 

*  From  whom,  please  ? ' 

*  The  boss  ;  you  '11  never  get  anything  here  without 
asking  for  it.    We  're  not  cabbages.' 

*  What  do  you  mean  ?  ' 

'  I  mean,'  answered  the  clerk  irritably,  *  that  all  the 
pay  we  get  would  hardly  buy  a  bag  of  cabbages.' 

'  Do  you  think  I  would  get  an  advance  ? ' 

'  Am  I  not  teUing  you,  you  simpleton :  public 
officials  are  as  stingy  as  house-factors  or  money-lenders. 
They  '11  keep  your  nose  to  the  ledger  all  your  life  for 
the  same  pay.' 

'  I  '11  be  very  glad  to  do  so  then,'  answered  Barnacles. 

*  I  wish  money  to  buy  a  sheep.' 

The  clerk  held  up  a  small,  white,  fat  hand,  on  one  of 
whose  fingers  was  a  cheap  ring. 


BARNACLES  245 

*  I  don't  want  to  know  about  your  domestic  affairs.' 
Barnacles  blinked  at  him. 

'  You  are  only  interested  in  pay  and  papers  here.' 

The  clerk,  unable  to  make  any  rejoinder,  put  on  a 
grimace,  and  into  his  little  soul  hatred  entered. 

But  Barnacles  meeting  his  chief  said :  *  Will  you 
give  me  more  pay,  please  ?  ' 

The  chief  stopped  as  if  he  were  shot. 

*  Eh  !   what 's  that  ?  ' 

*  I  should  like  to  get  more  money.' 

A  pair  of  quizzical  eyes  roved  over  Barnacles'  face. 

*  Going  in  for  frivolity  ?  ' 

*  No  !   I  wish  to  purchase  a  sheep.' 
The  chief  roared  with  laughter. 

'  There  's  worse  than  a  leg  of  mutton.' 
Nevertheless  he  had  cause  to  remember  that  sheep. 
When  Barnacles'  pay  was  handed  to  him,  he  counted 
it  carefully. 

'  Is  this  all  ? '  he  asked  the  cashier. 

*  That 's  right,  isn't  it  ?  '  was  the  testy  answer. 

*  I  expected  more.' 

'  You  did  ;  how  much  now  ? ' 
'  I  am  not  familiar — an  increase.' 
'  Ay,  and  who  told  you  ? ' 

*  I  spoke  to  the  Town  Gerk.' 

*  And  what  did  he  say  ?  '  A  smile  was  breaking  on 
the  cashier's  face. 

'  He  said  there  's  worse  than  a  leg  of  mutton.' 
The  cashier  rocked  in  his  chair  with  laughter. 

*  So  there  is — so  there  is,'  he  spluttered. 

*  Why  are  you  laughing  ?  ' 

The  cashier,  sobered,  pondered  the  lantern-jawed 
face  before  him. 


246  BARNACLES 

*  Who  put  it  into  your  head  to  ask  a  rise  ? ' 
'  Mr.  Moffat.' 

*  Oh  !  indeed.'  The  mirth  suddenly  went  out  of  the 
eyes  of  the  cashier,  who  put  his  hand  on  Barnacles' 
shoulder. 

*  You  don't  get  a  rise  here  under  a  year.' 

*  Then  why  did  Mr.  Moffat  advise  me  ? '  asked  Bar- 
nacles in  a  grave  voice.     His  face  flushed  deeply. 

'  He  deserves  to  be  damn  well  kicked,'  grunted  the 
cashier. 

Barnacles  looked  puzzled.  A  frown  gathered  over 
the  blue  eyes. 

*  Am  I  not  worthy  of  respect  here  ? '  he  asked. 

*  You  are  ;  you  're  a  better  man  than  the  wasp  who 
advised  you  to  ask  for  a  rise.  Look  here,  Mr,  Brockle- 
hurst,  you  are  too  simple.  Don't  believe  everything 
you  are  told.' 

*  Thank  you  :  I  shall  try  and  profit  by  your  advice. 
I  have  always  trusted  men.' 

And  Barnacles  went  to  Mr.  Moffat,  and  amazed  him 
by  asking  him  to  fight. 

*  Do  you  want  to  be  put  in  jail  ? '  said  the  clerk,  his 
face  becoming  pale. 

*  I  am  indifferent,'  answered  Barnacles.  *  You  are  a 
coward.  It  was  not  a  jest ;  it  was  an  outrage  on 
humanity.  * 

VI 

Barnacles  borrowed  a  measuring-tape  from  the 
undertaker  who  lived  in  the  close,  and  advanced  to  the 
old  seaman,  who  was  bent  over  the  fire  dreaming  of  his 
past  on  the  deck  of  labouring  ships.    Barnacles,  without 


BARNACLES  247 

touching  any  part  of  his  clothing,  measured  the  old 
man  as  adroitly  as  he  was  able.  Then  he  composed 
the  following  when  the  dishes  were  washed  and  SkeUy 
was  snoring  : — 

*  Dear  Mrs.  Normanshire, — ^The  tailor  will  require 
to  make  allowance  for  the  fact  that  I  measiured  the 
venerable  sailor  when  he  was  crouching  over  the  coals. 
Also  he  is  naturally  bent  with  age.  From  the  nape  of 
his  neck  to  where  he  sat  on  the  stool  is  twenty-eight 
inches  ;  from  shoulder  to  shoulder  fourteen  inches.  I 
notice  that  his  neck  is  very  thin  and  bloodless.  A 
warm  wooUen  mufifler  would  be  better  than  a  silk  one. 
I  cannot  say  how  much  is  the  width  of  the  sleeve,  or 
how  much  he  is  round  the  chest ;  but  if  the  tailor  knows 
that  he  is  past  seventy,  and  much  shrunken,  I  presume 
he  wiU  be  able  to  guess  the  number  of  inches  required. 

*  May  I  suggest  that  as  the  old  man  is  weak  and  near- 
sighted, large  brass  buttons  should  be  sewn  on.  Also 
a  deep  pocket  to  hold  a  telescope,  for  I  must  tell  you 
that  sometimes  he  imagines  he  is  a  ship's  captain ; 
and  with  a  telescope  in  the  jacket  he  will  esteem  him- 
self an  admiral  of  the  stormiest  seas.  He  is  only  a 
poor  nestUng  of  a  man,  but  is  full  of  fine  dreams.  For 
instance,  he  thinks,  because  he  has  an  old  age  pension, 
that  he  can  buy  the  world.  Nothing  wiU  put  it  out  of 
his  head  but  that  he  has  bought  the  jacket.  He  will 
go  mad  with  joy  over  it.  Heaven  gave  uniforms  to 
other  men  when  he  was  young,  and  I  do  not  think  he 
murmured.  Now  that  he  is  getting  one  himself,  he 
wiU  take  rank  at  last.  It  wiU  make  him  live  greatly. 
It  is  very  touching.  He  is  such  a  child,  and  so  defence- 
less and  near  to  heaven. 


248  BARNACLES 

*  It  will  be  a  great  matter  if  your  gifts  to  him  could 
arrive  in  the  evening,  when  we  shall  all  be  present  to 
behold  his  joy. 

'  I  am  very  grateful  to  him  because  I  am  permitted  to 
write  to  you.  Your  friendship  will  never  perish  in  my 
soul. 

*  P.S. — You  will  rejoice  to  know  I  am  taking  means 
of  purchasing  the  sheep.  I  have  not  ceased  to  bless 
you  since  you  spoke  to  me  of  this.  Perhaps  my  father 
and  I  shall  become  friends  again.  The  thought  of  it 
keeps  me  from  sleeping.' 

The  following  day  Barnacles  approached  the  cashier 
and  said,  '  Will  you  advise  me  what  sort  of  gift  to  send  a 
lady  ?  ' 

*  Is  she  a  particular  friend  ? ' 

*  Yes,'  answered  Barnacles,  *  the  greatest  friend  I 
have  in  the  world.' 

*  Send  her  your  love,'  said  the  cashier  promptly. 
'  I  dare  not ' — ^Barnacles  blushed. 

The  cashier  meditated. 

*  Try  a  bottle  of  scent,'  he  hazarded ;  'girls  like  that.' 
During  his  lunch  hour  Barnacles  bought  the  scent. 

As  he  was  walking  down  the  High  Street,  a  florist's 
window  caught  his  eye.     He  went  into  the  shop. 

*  Please  give  me  some  flowers,'  he  asked  rather 
timidly. 

Barnacles  received  a  bunch  of  roses. 

These  and  the  bottle  of  scent  he  put  in  a  box  and 
laid  the  letter  on  the  top. 

The  same  evening  he  said  to  Skelly,  '  Do  you  know 
where  I  could  purchase  a  small  dog  suitable  for  a 
lady?' 


BARNACLES  249 

Skelly  was  sitting  on  his  father's  stool  in  his  shirt 
sleeves  and  stocking  soles,  half  asleep  with  his  back 
against  the  wall.     He  lifted  an  unwashed  face. 

*  Sheep  an'  dugs.  Is 't  a  bloomin'  meanagerie  ye  're 
gaun  in  for,  or  whit  ?  ' 

*  Mr.  Gilfillan  told  me  I  might  give  her  a  dog.' 
Barnacles  produced  a  blue  ribbon  from  his  pocket,  '  I 
bought  this  to-day  for  its  neck.' 

He  went  to  the  clock  on  the  brace,  opened  its  door, 
and  put  the  blue  ribbon  inside  beneath  the  pendulum. 

*  Ye  better  get  a  parrot  the  mom,'  said  Skelly. 
'  Skelly,  my  heart  is  set  on  this  dog.' 

'  A'  richt,  a'  richt.'  Skelly  flung  up  his  arms  and 
yawned.  '  I  '11  no  argue.  I  'm  too  wearit.  Man  ! 
Barnacles,  it 's  a  killin'  job,  this.  I  'm  frichted  whiles 
when  I  think  o'  wee  Kitchener — ^if  onything  cam  ower 
me.  My  he'rt  fills  when  I  luk  at  him  playin'  on  the 
floor.' 

'  Don't  concern  yourself,  Skelly,'  answered  Barnacles ; 

*  I  '11  be  a  father  to  him  as  long  as  I  live.' 

Skelly  rose  and  stretched  himself. 

*  God  only  kens ;  I  wish  I  had  my  powny  back.  Thon 
furnace  fires  are  bumin'  me  oot.'     He  shook  himself. 

*  I  'm  for  bed.     I  could  sleep  till  the  Day  o'  Judgment.' 

Skelly  tumbled  in  as  he  stood,  in  his  clothes. 
Presently  he  was  asleep.  The  door  opened  inch  by 
inch,  and  a  white,  worn  face  looked  in.  The  nose  was 
red  with  the  cold  ;  the  old  man's  teeth  were  chattering. 
He  put  his  head  round  the  door,  and  peered  at  the  bed. 
Then  he  entered  quietly,  closed  the  door  as  if  he  was  a 
burglar,  and  tip-toed  across  the  floor,  with  long  intervals 
between  each  step,  like  an  acrobat  balancing  on  a 
tight  rope. 


250  BARNACLES 

*  Is  he  ower  ? '  he  whispered  m  a  wheezy  voice  to 
Barnacles. 

*  Yes,'  answered  Barnacles  sadly. 

The  old  man  directed  himself  towards  the  stool  on 
which  his  son  had  been  sitting,  picked  it  up  and  carried 
it  to  the  front  of  the  fire.  He  sat  down,  took  off  his 
boots,  and  spread  his  shaking  hands  to  the  blaze. 

'  What  day  is  this,  Barnacles  ?  '  he  whispered. 

*  Tuesday.' 

He  knew  it  was  Tuesday,  but  he  trembled  lest  he 
had  made  a  mistake,  and  it  was  only  Monday. 

*  Twa  days  yet  till  Friday,'  he  said,  returning  once 
more  to  the  fire. 

He  lived  for  Friday.  On  that  day  he  walked  with 
gaUant  bearing  to  the  post-office  to  claim  his  pension. 
It  took  him  a  whole  afternoon  to  accomplish  this,  and 
he  lingered  over  the  delicious  task  in  the  most  ingenious 
ways.  Only  at  the  last  moment  when  his  mind  had 
exhausted  the  pleasure  would  he  dive  into  the  post- 
office,  where  he  was  as  well  known  to  the  officials  as 
a  stamp. 

*  The  morn's  nicht  an'  it  'U  just  be  ae  day,'  he  was 
saying  to  the  glowing  coals,  when  a  hand  was  laid  on 
bis  shoulder. 

He  looked  up.  Barnacles  was  on  his  knees  beside 
him,  his  face  near  his  own.  The  spirits  of  the  old  man 
had  risen  wonderfully  in  the  heat  of  the  fire. 

'  What  tricks  are  ye  up  to,  my  customer  ? '  he  chirped. 

Barnacles  nodded  to  the  bed. 

'  We  have  got  to  help  Skelly,'  he  said. 

A  sudden  change  came  over  the  old  man's  face, 
which  grew  full  of  alarm.  His  body  began  to 
tremble. 


BARNACLES  251 

'  Whit 's  wrang  wi'  Skelly  ?  ' 

'  Nothing,'  answered  Barnacles,  in  a  low,  soothing 
voice,  '  but  he  doesn't  care  for  the  work  he  is  at.' 

*  Man  !  man  !  what  a  fricht  ye  gied  me.  Ye  sent 
a  caul'  grue  through  me.' 

'  You  and  me  will  have  to  save  up— do  you  know 
what  for  ?  ' 

'  It 's  no'  for  a  pilot  reefer  jaicket,  is  it  ? '  The  light 
of  hope  suffused  the  old  man's  face. 

Barnacles,  hard  put  to  it  to  conceal  his  knowledge  of 
the  jacket,  said  :  '  We  '11  get  your  jacket  by  and  by ; 
just  now  it 's  something  else.' 

*  Ay  !  ay  !  whit  is  it  ? ' 
'  A  pony  for  Skelly.' 

The  old  man  began  to  tremble  again.  *  Ay,  ay  !  I 
micht  hae  jaloosed  ;  puir  Skelly  'ill  be  wantin'  the 
powny  the  wy  I  'm  wantin'  the  jaicket.' 

*  Will  you  give  something  of  your  pension  every  week, 
and  I  'U  give  part  of  my  wages  ?  We  '11  not  tell  SkeUy 
till  we  give  him  the  pony.' 

The  old  man's  face  was  flushed  on  the  cheek  bones, 
and  his  eyes  were  very  bright.  Hitherto  they  had 
been  talking  in  whispers.  He  forgot  himself  and 
cried  out :  '  I  wish  a'  the  Fridays  were  rowed  into  ane, 
an*  we  could  get  the  powny  the  mom ' 

Skelly  turned  uneasily  and  muttered  in  his 
sleep. 

The  old  man's  bright  eyes  were  fastened  with  rapture 
on  Barnacles'  face.  '  Will  I  get  gein'  it  to  him  ?  '  he 
whispered. 

'  No  one  else  but  you,'  answered  Barnacles,  and  rose 
to  his  feet. 

The  old  man  was  again  muttering  to  the  fire,  joyously 


252  BARNACLES 

making  feeble  calculations  of  days  and  weeks  and 
moneys. 

Barnacles  was  watching  him  and  thinking  when  he 
gets  his  jacket  his  life  will  not  be  robbed  of  dreams. 
He  will  yet  have  the  pony. 

As  for  Mr.  GilfiUan,  he  had  heard  from  his  friend, 
the  Town  Clerk,  of  Barnacles'  application  for  an 
increase  of  salary  in  order  to  buy  a  sheep.  Laughmg 
heartily  he  passed  the  news  to  Mrs.  Normanshire. 
She  also  laughed  gaily.  But  when  she  left  the  banker's 
house  the  gaiety  left  her  face.  And  when  she  reached 
her  own  home  she  saw  there  a  parcel  addressed  to  her. 
She  opened  it  and  read  the  letter.  For  a  long  time, 
with  the  letter  in  her  hand,  she  gazed  at  the  scent 
bottle  and  the  roses.  Her  garden  was  full  of  flowers. 
The  house  was  full  of  flowers.  But  never  before  on 
any  flowers  of  hers  had  tears  fallen  from  Mrs.  Norman- 
shire's  eyes. 

VIII 

On  Saturdays  Skelly  '  knocked  off  '  at  one  o'clock — 
an  hour  after  the  other  men  had  gone.  When  he  had 
eaten,  washed,  and  dressed  he  left  his  home,  and  within 
an  hour  returned  with  a  black  Pomeranian  dog.  He 
left  it  in  charge  of  wee  Kitchener,  and  again  left  home. 
Towards  the  tea  hour  he  locked  a  black-faced  sheep  in 
the  draughty  home  that  was  once  the  pony's. 

And  these  things  he  told  to  Barnacles  over  their 
boiled  egg  and  toast. 

When  the  stars  came  out  and  began  to  cross  the 
heavens.  Barnacles  was  mounting  the  steep  hill  to 


BARNACLES  253 

Castlehead  with  a  little  black  dog  in  his  oxter,  round 
whose  neck  was  a  blue  ribbon. 

The  door  was  opened  by  a  maid  who,  when  she  saw 
Barnacles,  began  to  laugh  ;  and  in  the  midst,  without 
being  asked  said,  '  Mrs.  Normanshire  is  not  at  home. 
Professor  YuUle  has  taken  her  out  for  the  evening.' 

Barnacles'  face  fell.  For  two  minutes  he  said 
nothing.  Then  he  thrust  the  little  dog  into  the  hands 
of  the  maid.  '  Please  give  this  to  your  mistress,'  he 
said,  and  walked  away  with  rapid  strides.  The  maid, 
who  was  looking  after  him,  had  a  silent  convulsion  of 
laughter. 

'  He  was  that  big  an'  the  dog  that  wee  I  couldna 
keep  from  laughin','  she  said  to  Mrs.  Beezle,  as  she  put 
down  the  dog  on  the  kitchen  floor.  It  began  to  bark 
so  loudly  that  Mrs.  Beezle's  severe  reprimand  was  lost 
on  the  foolish  maid. 

*  Professor  Yuille  has  taken  her  out  for  the  evening.' 
These  words  echoed  and  re-echoed  in  Barnacles'  brain, 
and  he  could  not  understand  his  heartache.  He  went 
on  and  on  walking  blindly — anywhere.  It  was  natural 
that  professors  should  take  her  out.  The  wonder  is 
that  the  princes  of  the  realm  did  not  come  to  see  her. 
He  had  been  presumptuous.  He  thought  with  agony 
of  his  poor  little  dog — such  a  quivering  bundle  to  give 
to  her,  whining  in  his  arms  all  the  time. 

'  I  must  go  away ;  I  must  go  away,'  he  cried 
aloud  to  the  stars  above  the  Renfrew  road,  '  or  I 
shall  die.' 

He  saw  the  great  velvet  eyes  in  the  dark,  the  noble 
calm  of  her  expression ;  and  the  head  superbly  wreathed 
in  white.  He  could  hardly  believe  that  this  being 
had  been  kind  to  him,  or  had  even  looked  at  him  at 


254  BARNACLES 

all.  When  he  had  told  her  of  his  wanderings  in  Paisley, 
her  eyes  had  looked  at  him  through  tears.  He  buried 
his  face  in  his  hands.  Everything — from  the  ghostly 
com  to  the  far-ofi  stars — seemed  to  be  listening  to  the 
wild  beating  of  his  heart. 

*  I  will  go  away  ;  I  am  not  fit  to  speak  to  her  ;  I  have 
no  right  to  bring  tears  to  her  eyes.  0  flower  of  heaven, 
you  wept  for  me  !  .  .  .' 

His  heart  was  bursting  in  his  breast.  He  sat  down 
at  the  roadside  and  began  to  sob.  .  .  . 

The  hour  was  late  when  he  reached  Cotton  Street. 
Wee  Kitchener  and  his  grandfather  were  asleep.  The 
floor  was  wet.  Every  Saturday  night  Skelly  washed 
it,  and  dusted  the  china  dogs  and  the  hen  which  lined 
the  shelf  above  the  fireplace  like  a  row  of  penguins. 

As  soon  as  Barnacles  sat  down,  Skelly  placed  on  the 
table  a  jug  with  milk,  part  of  a  loaf,  and  some  butter. 
Barnacles  stared  in  front  of  him,  and  did  not  eat  or 
speak. 

*  Tak  your  supper,  Barnacles.' 

*  No  food,  thanks,  Skelly.' 

Skelly  looked  at  him  suspiciously.  *  Ye  're  hungry ; 
I  see 't  by  your  face ;  I  ken  thon  caul'  sweet  oozin' 
oot  o'  the  hunger.' 

Those  words  of  sympathy  caused  the  pent-up 
anguish  of  the  solitary  hours  beneath  the  stars  to  burst 
from  him  in  a  cry. 

'  0  Skelly  !  Skelly  !  there  is  a  music  in  her  face 
marches  over  my  soul — she  is  a  noble  woman.  If  my 
mother  came  out  of  the  grave  this  night  she  could  not 
be  more  precious.' 

*  Is  she  that  bonnie  ? '  asked  Skelly  in  a  wondrously 
soft  voice. 


BARNACLES  255 

*  I  feel  exalted  when  I  look  at  her  ;  she  is  like  one 
that  comes  from  far  away  in  the  years  where  there  is 
no  suffering  or  cold.' 

'  Ye  're  tellin'  that  to  the  wrang  ane,'  said  Skelly, 
just  a  little  dryly ;  *  tak  my  advice  an'  teU  her.' 
'  I  cannot ;  I  cannot ;  I  am  not  worthy * 

*  Weel !  weel !  send  her  a  bit  note.  Ye  're  handy 
wi'  the  pen.  It 's  a  peety  ye  canna  put  some  o'  your 
fiddle  music  in  the  letter.  I  '11  go  bound  ye  it  wad 
saften  her  he'rt.' 

'  It 's  not  proper  ;  no,  no,  I  won't  do  it.' 

*  Hoo  is  it  no'  proper  ?    Are  ye  fond  o'  the  wumman  ? 
'  She  is  beautiful  as  the  memory  of  my  mother,'  said 

Barnacles,  with  tears  in  his  eyes. 

*  I  wish  to  God  she  was  here  the  noo  an'  h'ard  ye  say 
that ;  there  would  be  nae  need  o'  ony  letter.' 

*  Skelly  !  SkeUy  !  can  I  write  to  the  stars  and  ask 
them  to  give  me  part  of  their  glory  and  wonder  ?  ' 

'  Stars  be  flummoxed  !  I  'm  no'  sayin'  but  that  ye  'd 
speed  better  if  ye  askit  her  when  she  was  on  the  crook 
o'  your  airm  ;  but  it  appears  that 's  oot  o'  the  question  ; 
so  tak  the  pen.  There  's  a  wheen  o'  folk  get  a  wife  wi' 
advertisements  in  the  newspapers.' 

'  Don't,  please,  don't,  Skelly  ;  I  can't  endure  you  to 
talk  like  that.' 

The  suffering  in  his  face  and  voice  fiUed  Skelly's 
heart  with  pity. 

'  Man,  Barnacles,  wull  ye  no'  just  gang  an'  teU  her  a' 
ye  telt  me  the  nicht,  an'  if  she 's  got  the  he'rt  an'  flesh  o' 
other  weemin'  ye  '11  hae  her  marchin'  ower  your  soul 
every  day  o'  the  year.' 

The  hunger  of  hope  was  in  Barnacles'  face. 

*  If  I  could  dare,'  he  whispered ;  *  it 's  terrible  ;  it 's 


256  BARNACLES 

terrible !  She  '11  perhaps  laugh  at  me ;  I  'm  ugly ;  I  've 
only  one  eye ' 

*  Ay,  an'  ae  tongue.  If  she  '11  laugh  at  ye,  then  Eve 
wasna  her  granny.  Hach  ! '  Skelly  pulled  off  his  jacket, 
*  I  'm  gaun  to  bed.  If  it  was  me,  I  'd  mend  it  or  end 
it  before  I  'd  fash  mysel'  like  you.  You  an'  your 
stars ' 

Those  tonic  words  had  the  effect  they  were  intended  to 
produce.    A  wavering  look  came  over  Barnacles'  face. 

'  I  think  perhaps  you  are  right,  Skelly — she  goes  out 
with — would  she  come  out  Avith  me  for  the  evening ' 

'  I  was  never  at  college  like  you,'  answered  Skelly, 
yawning,  '  ye  'U  ken  best  yoursel' ;  there  was  never  a 
lassie  bom  that  wadna  gang  oot  for  the  evenin' — that 's 
the  wy  I  luk  at  it.' 

SkeUy  was  rapidly  undressing  as  he  talked.  '  Come 
to  your  bed  ;  it 's  Sunday  mom  ;  it  '11  dae  nae  good 
gantin'  at  the  grate.' 

Barnacles  rose,  took  off  his  jacket,  and  stood  with 
it  in  his  hand,  looking  at  the  back  of  the  head  on  the 
pHlow.  He  opened  his  mouth,  closed  it  again  without 
speaking,  and  sat  down. 

A  noise  of  wrangling  and  oaths  began  in  the  court- 
yard below.  This  was  a  common  occurrence  on 
Saturday  nights.  Feet  were  shuffling  round  the  yard. 
There  was  a  thud  of  blows  ;  a  scream  of  rage  ;  oaths  ; 
the  sound  of  a  body  falling  ;  a  groan,  followed  by 
silence.     It  was  broken  by  a  snore  from  Skelly. 

This  snore  aroused  Barnacles.  He  put  out  his  hand 
and  turned  down  the  wick  of  the  lamp.  A  golden  moon 
nearly  fuU  hung  in  the  sky.  A  mighty  tideless  silence 
lay  upon  Paisley,  under  which  the  town  was  with- 
drawn from  the  fever  of  the  day  ;  the  moon  was  laving 


BARNACLES  257 

in  its  coolness  and  purity  the  stains  of  sin,  and  hushing 
into  oblivion  the  thud  of  sickening  blows. 

Barnacles  sank  on  his  knees  at  the  window,  his  soul 
quietened  in  the  tideless  ocean.  Over  the  roofs, 
beyond  the  haze  of  gold  in  the  moonlit  skies.  Love 
sat  on  a  white  throne  beside  God. 

'  Richer  than  the  stars  and  above  them,'  he  said, 
looking  up  steadfastly,  '  0  peerless  eyes  !  ' 

He  suddenly  shivered. 

*  Thank  God,'  he  said,  in  a  fervid  voice,  *  I  'm  not 
bHnd.'  He  thought  of  the  man  who  lived  beside  him, 
with  the  tin  plate  on  his  breast,  and  realised  the  full 
calamity  of  blindness.  This  man  had  never  seen  his 
mother.  He  would  never  see  the  eyes  of  love.  The 
tap-tapping  of  his  stick  was  like  blood  dripping  from 
a  heart  veiled  in  constant  night. 

'  I  might  never  have  seen  her.  I  shall  always  see 
her  now.  Nothing  can  rob  me  of  that '  :  at  the  thought 
his  soul  was  filled  with  peace. 

'  Wha  's  that  speakin'  ?  '  came  a  voice  from  the 
bed,  and  SkeUy  moved  in  the  blankets. 

*  It 's  me,'  answered  Barnacles,  rising  from  his  knees, 
'  I  'm  coming  to  bed.' 

IX 

All  through  the  blessed  rest  of  Simday  SkeUy  cogi- 
tated, and  came  to  the  determination  that  the  woman 
in  Castlehead  must  be  written  to.  He  went  out  to  one 
of  those  pitiable  little  shops  with  a  beU  over  the  door, 
that  are  forced  to  keep  open  on  Sundays,  and  bought 
paper,  pen,  and  ink.  For  the  remainder  of  the  Sunday 
he  further  cogitated  on  a  scribe. 

R 


258  BARNACLES 

*  I  'm  flummoxed  ;  I  'm  flummoxed  ;  I  'm  flum- 
moxed.' Again  and  again  he  said  this,  for  he  could  not 
think  of  the  pen  of  a  ready  writer. 

His  mind  was  full  of  the  problem  all  the  next  day, 
and  as  he  went  home  to  dinner  he  brooded  on  the  art 
of  penmanship,  and  came  to  the  wild  resolve  of  seeking 
help  from  wee  Kitchener's  teacher.  Such  a  delicate 
task,  SkeUy  thought,  could  only  be  entrusted  to  a  lady. 

And  the  kindly  fates  were  even  then  preparing  the 
way  for  a  lady,  in  the  person  of  Mrs.  Normanshire. 
She  was  ill  at  ease.  Gifts,  including  an  expensive  dog, 
were  pouring  in  upon  her.  She  realised  the  pain  he 
would  suffer  when  she  would  tell  him  that  they  must 
cease ;  and  tell  him  without  delay,  for  she  feared  that 
his  shallow  purse  would  be  drained.  At  first  she  thought 
of  sending  Mrs.  Beezle  ;  but  that  would  only  increase 
his  pain.  She  must  go  herself.  Her  cheeks  flamed  as 
she  set  off  to  the  office  of  the  Town  Clerk,  which  she 
entered  in  a  breathless  state.  She  was  strangely  re- 
lieved to  find  that  Barnacles  was  not  there.  '  Hasn't 
been  here  all  day  '  :  could  not  understand  why.  She 
was  alarmed.     Where  did  he  live  ?     In  Cotton  Street. 

Skelly  was  at  dinner  with  his  father  when  a  knock 
came  to  the  door  ;  and  when  the  person  who  had 
knocked  entered  on  his  invitation,  Skelly  was  so  flum- 
moxed indeed,  that  he  rose,  sat  down  again,  and 
dropped  the  knife  with  which  he  was  eating.  A  feeble 
way  surely,  SkeUy,  to  meet  one  of  those  '  swells  '  of 
Castlehead  whom  you  despise. 

She  was  advancing  towards  him  with  outstretched 
hand,  and  with  such  a  smile,  and  from  such  eyes  as 
SkeUy  had  never  seen.  Could  such  a  smile  of  comrade- 
ship come  out  of  Castlehead  ?     It  reached  the  depths 


BARNACLES  259 

of  Skelly's  soul.  He  came  to  himself,  and  set  to  rubbing 
his  hand  on  the  hip  of  his  trousers. 

'  Ye  canna  tak  my  haun',  mem  ;  it 's  a'  dirty.' 

Nevertheless  this  angelic  creature,  who  remembered 
in  that  moment  that  she  had  seen  Skelly  bury  a  baby, 
took  his  hand,  and  said  : 

'  It 's  a  kindly  hand.' 

And  you  behold  Skelly  completely  flummoxed,  and 
wishing  his  hand  were  off,  and  stammering — so  much  so 
that  this  radiant  being,  as  if  she  spoke  of  kindly  hands 
every  day  of  her  life,  and  thought  nothing  of  it,  asked  : 

'Is  Mr.  Brocklehurst  at  home  ?  '  and  Skelly, 
mightily  relieved  to  have  attention  diverted  from  his 
hand,  answered  : 

*  No,  mem ;  he  's  gaun  awa  wi'  a  sheep  to  his  f aither 
up  the  Braes.' 

*  Ought  he  not  to  be  at  the  office  ?  ' 

Skelly  smiled,  and  took  the  first  look  at  those  deep 
soft  eyes.  Encountering  in  them  his  own  smile  of 
understanding,  he  said  : 

'  Barnacles  'ill  mind  o'  that — aifter.  Did  ye  want 
to  see  him  partic'ler  ;  maybe  I  could  tell  him.'  Skelly 
was  finding  it  easier  to  speak  now.  Her  smUe,  and 
something  indefinable  in  her  that  was  gracious,  con- 
siderate, womanly,  had  won  his  heart.  A  bold  idea 
even  was  taking  form  in  his  mind  as  she  answered  him. 

'  Thank  you  very  much  ;  it  is  something  you  cannot 
tell  him  ;   I  will  send  a  message  in  the  morning.' 

The  bold  idea  was  formed. 

'  Faither,  will  ye  step  doon  to  the  close  ?  I  'm 
wantin'  to  ax  this  leddy  aboot  something.' 

For  the  first  time  in  his  life  the  old  man  was  dis- 
missed.   He  skipped  about,  all  doubled  up,  looking 


260  BARNACLES 

for  his  seaman's  cap,  and  crying,  *I  was  just  goin' 
oot  before  she  came  in  ;  I  '11  no'  be  in  your  way, 
Skelly  ;  I  was  goin'  for  a  daunner  aifter  my  dinner.' 

When  he  was  gone,  Skelly,  with  many  signs  of 
nervousness,  said  :  '  Ye  '11  excuse  me,  mem,  for  axin* 
ye  to  wait  a  meenut ;  I  hae  to  clype  it  to  some  ane. 
Barnacles  is  fair  heid  ower  heels  in  love  wi'  a  lassie 
up  Castleheid  wy,' — ^Mrs.  Normanshire's  face  went  on 
fire,  but  her  eyes  remained  steadfast  on  Skelly's  face, 
— '  it 's  just  teirin'  the  he'rt  oot  o'  him  ;  an'  he  '11  no' 
tell  her,  an'  he  '11  no'  write  to  her.  Sae  I  made  up  my 
mind  to  let  her  ken  mysel,  only  1  'm  flummoxed  if  I 
can  write  ae  scrape.  I  'm  no'  heedin'  aboot  axin'  a 
man  to  dae  't.' 

Mrs.  Normanshire  drew  a  deep  sigh  of  relief ;  and 
Skelly  never  heard  such  a  silvery  laugh  of  youth, 
joyous  and  full  of  a  glad  content,  as  came  from  her. 

*  Do  you  wish  me  to  write  the  letter  ?  ' 

*  K I  micht  be  so  bold,  mem  ;  he  '11  fa'  into  a  decline, 
as  shair's  death.' 

*  Very  well.' 

She  sat  down  on  the  chair  vacated  by  the  old  man, 
and  took  off  her  gloves. 

Skelly  soon  cleared  a  space  for  her,  and  put  before 
her  a  brand-new  pen,  ink,  and  paper. 

*  There  ye  are,'  he  said,  and  stealing  a  side-glance  at 
her  glowing  face,  '  ye  '11  ken  brawly  what  to  say.' 

She  looked  up. 

*  What  makes  you  think  that  ?  ' 

And  before  Skelly  knew  what  he  was  sajring — 

*  Ye  're  that  bonnie.' 

There  was  a  long  silence.  Skelly  could  have  bitten 
out  his  tongue.     He  was  afraid  to  look  at  her — he  who 


BARNACLES  261 

so  boldly  advised  Barnacles  to  take  his  love  in  his  arms. 
He  was  waiting  for  a  thunderbolt  to  fall,  and  burst 
out  in  wretched  contrition : 

*  I  didna  mean  that,  mem.' 

No  thunderbolt  fell.  Instead  this  divine  creature 
put  her  chin  on  her  hand  and  a  little  sigh  escaped  her. 

'  It  is  too  bad  ;  after  saying  such  a  nice  thing,  to 
say  now  you  didn't  mean  it.' 

Skelly  was  more  and  more  flummoxed. 

'  Ay  !  I  mean  it,'  he  cried  in  a  tone  which  even  the 
dullest  could  not  mistake ;  '  but  my  heid  's  a'  upside 
doon  ;  ye  're  as  bonnie  as  bonnie  ;  but  I  got  frichted 
when  it  cam  oot  o'  me.' 

'  I  think,'  answered  the  lady,  dabbing  the  pen  point 
into  the  paper,  *  it  will  be  dangerous  for  Mr.  Brockle- 
hurst  if  you  become  his  teacher.' 

*  Ach,  puir  sowl,  he  doesna  need  ony  teacher.  His 
he'rt  's  as  big  as  the  sea,  but  he  's  as  shy  as  a  squirrel. 
Whiles  I  dinna  ken  whether  to  laugh  or  to  greet  ower 
him.  God  kens  what  '11  become  o'  him.  He  's  just  a 
wannert  wean.' 

*  Is  he  happy  here  ?  '  asked  the  lady. 

*  Happy  ?  ay.  He  'd  be  happy  onywhere.  I  askit 
him  to  leave  here  when  he  got  a  job  in  the  Town  Clerk's 
office.  It 's  no'  the  thing,  ye  ken,  bidin'  in  Cotton 
Street  an'  him  workin'  as  a  clerk.' 

'  And  what  did  he  say  ?  ' 

*  He  got  fair  bleezin'  mad,  an'  askit  what  wad  become 
o'  my  wee  boy  an'  my  auld  faither  gin  he  went  awa. 
He  plays  the  fiddle  to  them  an'  reads  stories  oot  o'  a 
book.' 

*  What  is  the  name  of  the  book  ?  ' 

Skelly  dared  to  look  with  a  full  eye  of  suspicion  at 


262  BARNACLES 

the  lady.  She  appeared  to  be  taking  more  interest 
in  Barnacles  than  in  the  letter.  The  notepaper  was 
alarmingly  virgin. 

*  If  ye  'U  excuse  me  saying  it,  mem,  will  ye  write  the 
bit  note  noo  ? '  he  said  anxiously ;  '  I  dinna  mind  the 
name  o'  the  book.' 

She  sat  straight  up  and  said  crisply  : 

*  I  '11  write  no  lov^e-letter  ;  you  must  tell  me  yourself 
what  to  say.' 

*  Well,  I  'm  fl '     Skelly  checked  himself,  picked 

up  the  knife  he  had  dropped,  and  with  it  began  to 
scratch  his  head. 

'  Hoo  is  it  ye  begin  ?  '  he  asked  beseechingly. 

*  What  is  the  lady's  name  ?  '  The  pen  was  dipped  in 
the  ink. 

'  It 's  ane  o'  thae  droU  names  ;  I  'm  flummoxed  if  I 
can  mind.     Can  ye  no'  dae  withoot  ony  name  ?  ' 

*  Yes  ;  you  might  begin  with  "  dear  madame,"  or 
"  dear  sweetheart,"  or  "  my  dearest,"  or  "  darling."  ' 

*  Put  doon  darlin','  said  Skelly,  '  I  like  that  the 
best.' 

Again  the  pen  was  dipped  and  there  was  written — 
•  Darling.' 

*  WeU,'  urged  the  lady. 

*  Skelly  was  busy  scratching  his  head. 

*  I  enclose  these  few  lines  to  let  ye  know  I  am  no 
scholar,  and  this  is  not  me  that  writes  but  a  lady  that 
is  a  friend  of  Barnacles.' 

*  Do  you  thuik  I  should  put  that  in  ?  * 

Skelly,  already  beginning  to  enjoy  a  mild  triumph, 
asked  vaingloriously  : 
'  Whit  for  no'  ?  ' 
'  It  might  make  the  other  lady  jealous.' 


BARNACLES  263 

*  Holy  sailor,  ye  're  richt !  we  '11  hae  to  be  canny. 
Just  scratch  that  oot.' 

As  the  pen  was  about  to  perfori:n  this  office,  Skelly 
put  out  his  hand  and  gripped  the  point  of  it. 

*  Let  it  bide,'  he  said  warily ;  '  it  'U  maybe  dae  her 
good  to  leave  her  jealous.' 

'  Very  well,'  said  a  grave  voice,  *  you  know  best ;  go 
on  ;  what  next  ? ' 

Scratch  !  scratch  !  not  the  pen,  but  the  knife  on 
SkeUy's  hair.     '  I  'm  no  scholar.' 

'  You  have  already  said  that.' 

'  Did  I  ?  '  answered  Skelly ;  '  I  don't  mind  wan  haet 
o'  what  Barnacles  said  aboot  her.  I  'm  as  empty 
inside  as  a  church  on  Monday.' 

Scratch  !   scratch  ! 

'  Put  this  doon  :  "  Barnacles  is  as  shy  as  a  peewee  o' 
her  nest  o'  eggs  when  ye  're  aboot "  ;  that  ought  to  hae 
some  effec'.' 

*  Anything  more  ?  '  asked  the  lady. 

'This  is  to  let  ye  ken,'  went  on  SkeUy,  'that  Barnacles 
is  fair  daft  aboot  ye,  an'  if  ye  hae  ony  gumption  ye  '11 
tak  him.  He  's  that  saft  that  it 's  you  will  be  weirin' 
the  breeks,  though  I  doot  ye  're  no'  a'  thegither  blin' 
to  this  fac'  yersel.' 

Skelly  ceased,  and  the  pen  stopped. 

'  Do  you  think  that  is  fair  ?  '  asked  the  lovely  scribe. 

*  A's  fair  in  love,'  said  SkeUy  severely ;  '  I  'm  makin' 
the  best  o't  for  Barnacles.  Ony  wumman  wad  think 
twice  before  refusing  a  man  like  Barnacles.  He  's  just 
a  big  wean.' 

'  Am  I  to  put  that  down  ?  ' 

'  Na,  na,'  answered  Skelly,  '  she  micht  think  he  was 
looney  ;   he  's  no'  that.     He  's  just  fair  daft  for  ye  ' — 


264  BARNACLES 

Skelly  forgot  he  was  dictating — '  clean  daft,  I  tell  ye. 
He  canna  sleep  at  nights  rowlin'  his  een  up  to  the  stars, 
an'  aye  blab,  blabbin'  awa  aboot  ye  being  music 
marchin'  ower  his  soul.  1  canna  mind  the  hauf — ay, 
that  ye  're  as  bonnie  as  his  ain  mither.  If  ye  'd 
seen  his  face  when  he  said  it — it  was  a'  in  a  lowe. 
An'  that  ye  were  the  kindest  craitur  in  a'  the  warld 
for  tellia'  him  to  send  the  sheep  back  to  thon  soor 
deevU,  his  faither.  Hae  ye  ta'en  leave  o'  your  senses 
to  put  such  nonsense  intae  his  heid  ?  He  's  gettin' 
thin  ower  ye.  He  '11  no'  play  his  fiddle  or  do 
aucht.  Just  sits  an'  glowers  like  a  cat  watchin'  at  a 
moose-hole.  If  ye  diima  tak  peety  on  the  man  an' 
marry  him,  ye  '11  hae  his  life  on  your  sowl.  Just  gie 
him  a  wee  bit  o'  encouragement  if  ye  see  him  tongue- 
tackit.  It 's  wonnerfu'  hoo  he  comes  oot  o'  his  sheU 
then.' 

Skelly  came  to  a  sudden  stop. 

*  Is  that  aU,  my  good  friend  ?  '  asked  the  lady. 
Skelly  could  not  see  her  face.     He  judged  by  her 

voice  that  she  was  laughing. 

*  It  fair  bates  me  to  tell  ye  a'  he  says.  Stop  noo  ; 
I  mind  he  said  he  could  no  more  ax  ye  to  be  his  wife 
than  he  could  ax  the  stars  to  gie  him  their  bonnie ' 

*  Bonnie  what  ?  '  urged  the  scribe. 

'  I  'm  bate,'  said  Skelly  ;  '  but  gie  her  my  best  respecs, 
an'  hoping  she  is  in  good  health  as  this  leaves  me  the 
same  at  present.' 

*  It  is  done,'  answered  the  scribe. 
Skelly  pondered. 

*  Just  put  in  that  Barnacles  has  a  college  eddication, 
an'  his  faither  has  a  big  farm  an'  is  rotten  wi* 
money.' 


BARNACLES  265 

The  lady  rose  and  handed  the  composition  to  Skelly. 
He  took  it,  and  as  he  put  it  inside  the  door  of  the  clock 
he  said  : 

'  I  'U  send  ye  a  bit  o'  the  bridescake.' 

'  I  shall  be  delighted ' ;  she  was  pulling  on  a  glove. 

*  No'  a  word  o'  this  to  Barnacles,  mind  ye.' 
'  Not  for  aU  the  world.' 

*  Richt,'  answered  Skelly,  '  an'  on  the  weddin'  day 
I  'U  no'  forget  to  tell  him  he  has  more  than  ae  freend 
at  Castleheid.' 

'  Do,'  she  answered. 

In  her  eyes  lurked  a  smile  ;  about  the  lips  the 
shadow  of  drooping.  .  .  . 

When  she  was  gone  a  delicate  perfume  lingered  in 
the  air.  Skelly  sniffed,  and  delivered  himself  to  the 
china  dogs : 

'  Ye  should  never  speak  o'  things  ye  ken  nowt  o'.' 

But  in  this  sentiment  Skelly  was  merely  re-echoing 
Barnacles,  as  Barnacles  was  echoing  the  wisdom  of 
mankind. 

Nevertheless  SkeUy  discovered  in  himself  a  new 
respect  for  Barnacles,  not  only  in  that  he  associated 
with  such  graceful  beings,  but  that  he  had  had  the 
courage  to  defend  them. 

'  I  'm  only  an  ignorant  big  blaw,'  said  Skelly  to  the 
china  dogs  ;  and  his  face  wrinkled  up.  'I  don't  ken 
whaur  Barnacles'  eyes  is.  It 's  a  peety  it 's  no'  her 
he  's  aifter.     But  he  was  aye  hauf-blin'.' 

He  considered  the  matter  and  shook  his  head. 

*  Puir  Barnacles,  he  wad  never  hae  the  nerve  ; 
she  's  a  fair  clinker.' 

He  returned  to  the  moulding  shop  more  than  an 
hour    late,   and   found  another   man   tending    those 


266  BARNACLES 

greedy  fires  which  cannot  wait  on  the  correspondence 
by  proxy  of  lovers. 

He  was  sitting  looking  at  the  door  of  the  clock  when 
Barnacles  entered. 

*  You  are  surely  home  early,'  said  Barnacles. 

*  I  am,'  answered  Skelly  with  a  snap,  *  I  've  got  the 
sack.' 

'  I  also  am  discharged,'  said  Barnacles,  in  the  tone 
of  one  who  has  just  received  a  legacy. 


And  for  these  reasonsi 

Oossing  Paisley  Square  at  his  lunch  hour,  he  saw  a 
little  bundle  of  fur  dabbled  with  blood,  and  heard  a  boy 
yell,  '  It  was  run  ower  wi'  a  motor-caur,'  and  then  a 
woman's  cry,  '  0  my  doggie,  my  wee  doggie  !  it  was 
Archie's  dog ' ;  and  before  this  little  woman,  deeply 
dressed  in  black,  could  see  the  blood,  Barnacles  had 
whipped  off  his  jacket  and  wrapped  up  the  mutilated 
body. 

It  was  no  use  telling  the  chief  he  had  been  burying 
Archie's  dog,  and  that  Archie  had  only  died  last  week. 

Barnacles  received  a  severe  wigging  for  being  absent 
from  duty  a  whole  afternoon  without  leave. 

This  transgression,  and  divers  clerical  offences,  ctd- 
minated  in  a  dereliction  of  duty  which  ended  the 
vagrancies  of  Barnacles  in  the  Town  Clerk's  office. 

On  Monday  he  remembered  the  sheep.  As  he  set 
off,  his  head  was  so  fuU  of  what  SkeUy  had  been  saying 
to  him  on  Saturday  night  about  Mrs.  Normanshire, 
that  the  sheep  was  almost  choked.    It  trotted,  bleat- 


BARNACLES  267 

ing  feebly,  at  the  heels  of  a  deaf  man,  who  was  also 
very  frightened  because  of  what  Skelly  had  said. 
Would  the  very  birds  of  the  air  not  carry  Skelly's 
daring  words  to  her  ?  Would  she  not  read  them  in  his 
own  face  the  next  time  they  met  ?  He  came  to  a 
sudden  halt  in  the  midst  of  Paisley  Square.  Perhaps 
they  would  meet  no  more.  Would  he  ever  see  her 
again  ?  He  might  go  to  her  house  for  ever  and  ever, 
and  find  her  gone  out  for  the  evening  with  professors 
and  princes.     Skelly  was  mad  to  talk  as  he  had  done. 

He  was  standing  on  the  same  spot  where  once  he 
had  listened  to  the  Sabbath  bells.  It  was  here  he  first 
met  her  ;  here  he  had  walked  with  her  to  the  Abbey. 
What  were  bells  now  ?  what  was  anything  ?  why  was 
he  here  ? 

And  he  remembered  the  sheep.  He  looked  behind, 
before,  and  at  the  hand  which  had  held  the  rope. 

'  Dear  me,'  said  Barnacles,  taking  ofif  his  spectacles 
and  gazing  at  the  shops,  *  the  sheep  is  gone.' 

He  scrutinised  the  Square.  At  that  hour  of  breakfast 
it  was  almost  deserted.  A  cab  was  jogging  through  it. 
A  girl  with  a  list  was  carrying  a  basket.  Two  officials 
connected  with  the  tramways  were  in  conversation 
at  the  edge  of  the  south  pavement.  Barnacles 
approached  them. 

'  Did  you  see  a  sheep  passing  here  ?  ' 

'  No,'  said  one  of  them ; '  are  you  going  to  the  market  ?  * 

*  What  market  ? '  asked  Barnacles.  He  took  oflE  his 
hat  and  began  wiping  his  brow. 

*  This  is  market  day,'  said  the  tramway  man.  As  if 
to  emphasise  his  words,  a  young  dark-a-vised  man 
passed  along  leading  a  cow. 

'  The  day  when  I  needed  the  market  there  was  none/ 


268  BARNACLES 

said  Barnacles,  *  and  now  there  is  one  when  I  don't 
need  it.     I  have  lost  my  sheep.' 

He  turned  away  sorrowfully,  but  soon  began  to 
quicken  his  steps  in  the  direction  from  which  he  had 
come.  Almost  at  a  run  he  reached  the  old  stable. 
It  was  empty.  Somehow  he  thought  the  sheep  would 
go  back  there. 

He  returned  to  the  Square. 

*  My  poor  creature,'  he  said,  gazing  around,  '  where 
have  you  wandered  to  ?  ' 

As  much  as  the  sheep  was  Barnacles  lost  in  the  rain- 
blurred  Square.  He  was  examining  his  surroundings 
as  if  he  had  never  seen  them  before,  when  his  eye  fell 
on  the  Police  Station.  For  the  second  time  in  his  life 
Barnacles  entered  there.  It  is  cheek  by  jowl  with  the 
Town  Clerk's  office,  and  Barnacles  and  something  of 
his  reputation  were  known  in  the  purlieus  of  crime. 
The  officer,  who  had  seldom  cause  to  smQe,  showed  a 
grin. 

'  The  police  of  the  town  are  excellent,  I  know,  at 
looking  after  sheep,'  said  Barnacles  ;  '  mine  has  strayed. 
It  was  a  blunder.  If  it  is  found  I  shall  be  at  the  Town 
Clerk's  office.  I  have  a  post  there.  The  sheep  has  a 
rope  round  its  neck.' 

*  You  ought  to  have  a  dog,'  said  the  officer  jocularly. 
This  summoned  up  a  poignant  memory. 

*  I  had  one,'  said  Barnacles  sadly.  '  I  gave  it  to  a 
lady  ;   and  I  buried  another.' 

'  What  was  wrong  with  it  1  ' 

'  Death,'  answered  Barnacles ;  and  the  officer,  who 
was  preparing  his  wits  further  to  jest,  was  mortified. 

'  Ten  to  one  you  'U  never  see  your  sheep  again  ;  go 
and  hunt  for  it,'  he  said  brusquely. 


BARNACLES  269 

'  I  have  been  doing  that.' 

'  Well,  do  it  again ;  we  do  not  hunt  big  game 
here.' 

'  If  it  turns  up  will  you  let  me  know,  please  ? ' 

'  In  the  soup,  yes  ;  I  '11  let  you  know.' 

Barnacles  smiled. 

'  I  hope,'  he  said,  '  no  one  will  mock  at  you  the  first 
time  you  are  in  a  dilemma.' 

And  he  left  the  office,  and  walking  across  the  Square 
came  face  to  face  with  his  father. 

Mr.  Brocklehurst,  who  had  been  at  the  market, 
stopped  dead  in  his  tracks,  and  an  angry  gleam  came 
into  his  eyes.  Before  this  gleam  found  vent  in  words, 
Barnacles  said  : 

'  I  have  got  something  to  say  to  you.' 

*  Hae  ye  noo  ?  ' 

*  Yes  ;  I  have  a  sheep  for  you.' 

Mr.   Brocklehurst  thought  he  was  being  publicly 
insulted.     His  face  swelled  with  rage. 
'  Whaur  did  ye  steal't «  ' 
'  I  bought  it.' 

*  Man,  ye  're  gettin'  on,  an'  you  lookin'  sae  mouldy.' 

*  Have  patience,  father.  I  own  I  did  wrong  in  taking 
one  of  your  sheep.  I  was  on  my  way  to  Battlemains 
with  another.' 

*  An'  whaur  is 't  ?  ' 

*  I  don't  know  ;  it  escaped  me.' 

'  You  damn  looney,'  sneered  Mr.  Brocklehurst. 

*  I  fear  I  am.' 

This  confession  set  Mr.  Brocklehurst  on  fresh  rage. 

*  What  sort  o'  fule  are  ye  to  ca'  yersel  a  looney  ?  ' 

*  But  I  am  ;  I  lost  the  sheep.' 

*  God  peety  ye  ;  the  fleas  'iU  eat  ye  yet.    Whaur  hae 


270  BARNACLES 

ye  been  stravaigin'  to  since  ye  left  the  ferm  ?  ye  're 
as  thin  as  the  coulter  o'  a  pleugh.' 

*  Father,'  said  Barnacles,  in  an  earnest  voice,  *  your 
heart  is  softening  to  me,'  and  held  out  his  hand. 

Mr.  Brocklehurst  shot  a  keen  glance  round  Paisley 
Square. 

*  Tak  in  your  haun,'  he  said, '  the  folk's  lookin'  at  us.' 
He  thrust  his  own  in  his  trouser  pockets  and  loudly 
jingled  the  coins  there.  *  I  'm  gaun  to  hae  a  bite  in 
Gibson's.     C'awa  in  oot  the  rain  an'  hae  a  bit  chack.' 

*  Thank  you,  father  ;  but  I  must  go  and  look  for 
the  sheep.' 

Mr.  Brocklehurst  puUed  his  stiff  grey  beard,  leaned 
forward,  and  said  in  a  low,  fierce  voice : 

*  To  heU  wi'  the  sheep  !   c'awa.' 

Barnacles'  heart  leapt  with  joy  at  the  rugged  oath 
of  affection. 

They  set  off  together,  the  taU  form  of  the  son 
stooping  to  the  little  alert  grey  man. 

'  What  are  ye  daein'  for  a  leevin'  ?  '  he  was  asked 
snappishly. 

'  I  'm  a  clerk.' 

*  What  pey  are  ye  makin*  ? ' 

*  It 's  not  very  much  yet.' 

*  I  doot  no,'  interrupted  Mr.  Brocklehurst ;  *  man, 
ye  look  as  sterved  as  an  auld  grey  guU  howkin'  for 
worms  at  the  taU-en'  o'  a  pleugh.  C'awa  back  to  the 
ferm  an'  get  some  beef  on  your  ribs.' 

Barnacles'  eyes  filled  with  tears.  He  stopped  at  the 
threshold  of  the  restaurant. 

*  0  father,  father,  you  have  forgiven  me ! ' 

Mr.  Brocklehurst  swore,  stamped  into  the  restaurant, 
and  shouted  to  a  girl  who  was  passing  : 


BARNACLES  271 

*  See  's  some  guid  Scotch  broth  for  twa,  miss.' 
Clients   began    to   flock   in,  and  Mr.   Brocklehurst 

refused  to  carry  on  any  further  conversation  with 
his  son.  He  was  afraid  of  what  he  might  say 
or  do. 

In  silence  they  left  the  restaurant,  and  Barnacles 
walked  with  his  father  to  Castle  Street,  whence  the 
latter  broke  off  to  ascend  to  BattlemaiQS  among  the 
Braes.     As  they  were  about  to  part  Barnacles  said  : 

'  I  'U  not  try  to  find  the  sheep  any  more.' 

*  As  weel  's  no,'  grunted  Mr.  Brocklehurst ;  '  tak  a 
walk  oot  on  Sunday  and  see  the  ferm.' 

And  again  refusing  to  shake  hands  with  his  son  in 
the  pubHc  street,  Mr.  Brocklehurst  abruptly  went  on 
his  way. 

Barnacles  looked  after  him  as  long  as  the  close-knit 
sturdy  figure  was  in  sight. 

'  God  bless  the  poor  lost  sheep  and  aU  it  has  done 
for  me,'  he  said. 

His  father  loved  him,  and  he  would  never  have  known 
it  except  for  her.  The  very  earth  was  fuU  of  gladness. 
Though  he  were  a  thousand  mUes  away,  her  spirit 
would  iUumine  him  in  every  darkness,  inspire  him  in 
all  combats.  He  loved  even  the  town  which  she  in- 
habited. She  walked  for  ever  beneath  a  snow  of  apple- 
blossom,  and  the  light  of  the  sky  and  the  smiles  of 
earth  poured  down  and  sprang  up  and  met  at  her  feet. 
As  he  walked  along  he  peered  through  his  spectacles, 
and  thought  that  every  far-off  woman  was  her  coming 
along  the  street  in  radiancy.  He  lived  in  these 
moments  on  a  serene  height,  with  a  guest  harboured  in 
his  breast  more  beautiful  than  youth,  and  stronger 
than  the  cruelties  of  life.  .  .  . 


272  BARNACLES 

But  it  was  not  she  whom  his  eye  met  as  he  walked, 
but  the  glittering  window  of  a  musicseller's  shop. 

*  Dear  me,'  he  said,  and  putting  his  hands  in  his 
pockets,  he  hurried  into  the  shop. 

A  middle-aged  woman  with  a  cloud  of  short  curly 
hair  was  standing  behind  the  counter. 

*  I  think  it  was  the  sheep  that  recalled  the  debt  to 
my  mind,'  said  Barnacles. 

'  What  debt  ?  ' 

*  I  bought  a  violin  here  a  good  while  ago.  It  cost 
one  pound,  and  I  paid  nineteen  and  ninepence.  There 
is  threepence  to  pay.' 

'  I  follow  your  arithmetic,'  answered  the  lady,  in  a 
prim,  precise  voice, '  but  I  don't  remember  the  violin.' 
'  It  was  a  man  I  bought  it  from.' 

*  Oh  !  indeed ;  he  was  a  rogue ;  this  shop  has  changed 
hands.  Several  customers  have  been  inquiring  about 
him.  He  ran  away  with  their  violins  and  other  instru- 
ments left  for  repair.' 

Barnacles  was  nonplussed. 

*  That  is  strange,'  he  said. 

*  Very,'  she  answered  sourly. 

'  I  mean  that  a  man  would  do  that  and  allow  me  to 
be  in  his  debt.' 

*  That  is  the  way  of  rogues,'  she  answered  tartly. 
Barnacles  knitted  his  brows  so  much  that  his  spec- 
tacles declined  awry  on  his  nose. 

*  I  did  him  wrong,'  he  said  reflectively ;  *  I  find  I  am 
doing  a  good  deal  of  wrong.' 

*  I  don't  misdoubt  you,'  she  answered  dryly. 
Barnacles  pondered  her  face. 

*  Would  it  not  do  to  send  my  threepence  to  some  one 
whom  he  has  defrauded  ? ' 


BARNACLES  278 

*  Well,'  she  answered,  less  acidly,  '  it  will  make  up  a 
little ;  I  will  show  you  their  names.' 

She  took  a  sheet  of  paper  out  of  a  drawer  and 
laid  it  before  Barnacles.  There  were  some  nine  or 
a  dozen  names  written  down,  and  one  was  that 
of  Mrs.  Normanshire.  Barnacles  was  suddenly  en- 
raged. 

'  Did  she  lose  ?  '   he  pointed  to  the  name. 

'  Paid  twenty-four  shillings  for  music  which  she 
never  received.' 

Barnacles  laid  three  pennies  on  the  counter. 

'  These  are  for  her,'  he  said,  and  hurriedly  left  the 
shop.  At  every  turn  he  was  meeting  her  or  her 
shadow.     An  exaltation  seized  him  anew. 

'  I  'm  redding  up  my  life,'  he  thought,  as  he  hurried 
along.  Perhaps  he  meant  that  he  had  tried  to  restore 
the  sheep  and  had  paid  his  debt. 


XI 

The  Town  Clerk  of  Paisley  took  another  view  of  this 
*  redding-up.'  Barnacles  was  almost  at  the  entrance 
to  the  office  when  he  heard  some  one  shouting  his  name, 
and  turning  saw  a  policeman  beckoning  to  him  most 
lazUy,  as  if  he  were  drawing  Barnacles  to  him  by  means 
of  a  rope.  Barnacles  followed  him  into  the  office,  where 
he  saw  a  sheep  tethered. 

*  Is  this  your  sheep  ?  '   said  the  officer  in  charge. 

Barnacles  came  round  the  bar  and  went  up  to  the 
sheep. 

'  It  seems  to  be  her,'  he  said. 

'  Remove  your  property,  then.' 

s 


274  BARNACLES 

*  I  have  no  need  for  her  now.' 
The  officer  got  angry. 

*  Look  here  ;  I  've  had  enough  of  this  bloomin'  beast 
and  the  mess  she  made.  This  is  not  a  cattle-show. 
Shift  her.' 

*  But  what  am  I  to  do  with  her  ?  ' 

*  Go  and  drown  her  in  the  Cart.' 

The  officer,  as  he  spoke,  untied  the  rope  and  thrust 
it  into  Barnacles'  hand.  The  sheep  got  up  on  its 
knees  and  made  a  sudden  bound  towards  the  entrance. 
Head  down  it  careered  along  a  stone  corridor  and  dived 
into  a  cell.  Barnacles  got  a  glimpse  of  a  broad  sloping 
board  lying  on  the  floor  of  the  cell — the  only  furniture 
there.  The  sheep  careered  round  the  cell,  and  as  if 
the  instinct  for  freedom  was  aroused  in  its  breast  by  its 
maleficent  environment,  it  scurried  out,  darted  along 
another  corridor,  and  trooped,  to  the  astonishment  of 
Barnacles,  past  the  bar.  He  just  caught  sight  of  the 
red  furious  face  of  the  officer  when  he  found  himself  in 
Paisley  Square.  The  sheep,  as  if  dazed  by  the  sudden 
light  of  broad  day  after  the  gloom  of  the  malefactor's 
house,  came  to  a  halt  with  its  nose  on  the  causey-stones. 
These  it  followed  along,  sniffing  like  a  dog.  Barnacles 
tugged  the  rope. 

'  Come,  black-faced  one,'  and  then  he.  added,  '  but 
where  ?  ' 

They  were  drifting  across  the  Square,  when  suddenly 
the  sheep  tried  to  dart  between  the  legs  of  a  man 
walking  hurriedly  in  their  direction.  Only  by  his 
nimbleness  was  he  saved  the  ignominy  of  a  public  fall. 
As  it  was  his  hat  fell  and  rolled  over  the  wet  stones. 
He  uttered  an  angry  exclamation  as  he  picked  it  up. 
Then  his  eye  met  the  blue  orb  of  Barnacles  ;   and  the 


BARNACLES  275 

Town  Clerk  of  Paisley  was  really  angered  to  hear  a 
mild  voice  say : 

*  I  did  not  expect  to  meet  you  here.' 

'  And  what,  pray,  are  you  doing  here  ?  '  He  spoke 
with  excessive  politeness,  and  rubbed  his  hat  with  a 
handkerchief. 

*  I  am  trying  to  dispose  of  this  sheep.' 

*  May  I  inquire  when  you  left  the  office  ?  ' 

The  Town  Clerk  glanced  at  the  public  clock  in  the 
Square.     It  was  half-past  two  o'clock. 

'  I  am  afraid  I  have  not  been  there  at  all  to-day.' 

The  cup  of  Barnacles'  misadventures  and  mistakes 
was  full. 

'You  need  not  return  then,  except  for  the  salary 
due  to  you.' 

'  Are  you  dismissing  me  because  your  hat  fell  ? ' 
asked  Barnacles. 

The  Town  Clerk's  face  grew  dark. 

'  You  are  insolent,  sir,'  he  said  angrily. 

*  I  did  not  mean  to  be,'  Barnacles  answered  with 
genuine  humility.  '  I  only  wish  to  know,  for  I  would 
be  sorry  if  such  a  little  accident  were  to  make  us 
strangers  for  ever.' 

There  was  something  wistful  in  the  pale  face  which, 
in  spite  of  himself,  appealed  to  the  Town  Clerk. 

*  Why  in  heaven's  name  are  you  wandering  about 
with  a  sheep  when  you  ought  to  be  at  your  desk  ? ' 

'  The  sheep,  sir,  was  more  important.  If  you  knew 
all  you  would  understand.  I  took  it  from  my  father, 
and  had  to  restore  it.  He  might  die  at  any  time,  and 
my  guilt  would  be  on  me  for  ever.' 

A  smile  crept  into  the  eyes  of  the  Town  Clerk. 

*  I  am  not  a  theologian,'  he  said. 


276  BARNACLES 

Barnacles'  next  words  astonished  him. 

*  Then  I  am  a  free  man.' 

*  If  you  look  at  it  that  way,  yes  ;  free  as  the  birds. 
I  am  sorry  ;  but  1  never  go  back  on  my  word.' 

Barnacles  held  out  his  hand. 

'  Do  not  be  sorry,  sir.  I  am  very  happy  to-day. 
My  father  and  I  are  friends.  And  I  have  gained  my 
freedom.  I  was  incompetent.  I  would  only  vex  you 
more  and  more  if  I  stayed  on  at  the  office.  This  is  the 
best  thing  that  could  have  happened.  We  do  not  part 
in  anger.' 

*  No,  we  do  not,'  said  the  Town  Clerk  very  heartily. 
And  as  he  walked  towards  the  office  he  experienced 

an  unaccustomed  twinge  of  heartache. 
Barnacles  went  towards  the  sheep. 

*  WooUy  one,'  he  said,  '  in  God's  name  let  us  go  on.' 
And  so  they  reached  Cotton  Street,  and  the  sheep 

was  housed  in  little  grey  grandmother's  empty  home. 

As  soon  as  Barnacles  announced  that  he  was  *  dis- 
charged,' he  put  his  arm  along  Skelly's  shoulder. 

*  Rejoice  with  me,'  he  cried ;  *  my  father  and  I  are 
friends.' 

*  I  'm  no'  a  wumman,'  grunted  Skelly,  and  shook  off 
the  half -embracing  arm. 

The  look  of  disappointment  on  Barnacles'  face  at 
this  rebuff  made  SkeUy  add : 

'  I  'm  no'  mysel  the  day,  Barnacles  ;  I  hae  got  the 
dirty  sack.' 

'  Then  you  are  free  too,'  said  Barnacles. 

*  Ay,  gey  free,'  said  SkeUy  bitterly. 

The  two  friends  looked  at  one  another  in  silence. 

*  Don't  be  cast  down,  Skelly  ;  the  work  was  killing 
you.' 


BARNACLES  277 

'  Ay  ;  but  nae  work  'ill  kill  me  waur.' 

'  Courage,  Skelly,  your  old  work  is  coming  back.' 

*  Whatna  work  ?  ' 

*  With  the  pony.  I  have  the  sheep  in  the  stable ; 
my  father  won't  take  it.  We  '11  sell  it  and  lay  past  the 
money  for  a  pony.  My  father  will  advise  us  and  help 
us.' 

As  he  said  this,  the  door  opened  and  the  old  seaman 
came  in  all  bent.  He  walked  across  the  floor,  gripping 
his  long  white  beard,  as  if  to  support  his  crazy  steps, 
until  he  stood  in  front  of  Barnacles. 

'  There  was  a  braw  lady  here  the  day  speirin'  for  ye.' 

Skelly  uttered  a  bountiful  soldier's  oath. 

Barnacles  caught  the  old  man's  arm. 

*  Who  was  it  ? '  he  cried  excitedly. 

*  I  dinna  ken,'  wheezed  the  old  man,  '  ax  Skelly ; 
him  and  her  were  chief.' 

Barnacles  turned  to  Skelly. 
'  Was  it  her  ?  had  she  white  hair  ?  ' 
Skelly  was  petrified  with  astonishment. 
'  Ay  !   white  hair,'  he  gasped  out. 
'  What  did  she  want  ?  ' 

*  You.' 

A  feehng  of  alarm  was  taking  possession  of  Skelly. 
'  What  did  she  say  ?  '  pleaded  Barnacles. 

*  Nowt,'  answered  Skelly;  '  she  said  she  'd  let  ye  ken 
hersel.' 

Barnacles  came  forward  and  gripped  Skelly 's  arm. 
'  Is  she  not  an  angel,  Skelly  ?  ' 

*  Ay  ;  I  'm  no'  surprised  at  ye,  Barnacles ;  she  's  an 
angel  that  gaes  a  lang  way  roond,'  answered  Skelly 
truthfully. 

He  released  his  arm  from  Barnacles'  grip,  and  turn- 


278  BARNACLES 

ing  his  back  extracted  the  love-letter  from  the  clock  and 
put  it  in  the  fire.     He  stood  over  it  till  it  was  burned. 

When  the  task  was  completed  Barnacles  was  gone. 
The  father's  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  son.  They  were 
red,  and  the  beard  he  was  hanging  on  to  was  a  little 
wet.     There  was  fear  in  the  old  man's  face. 

'  Are  ye  angry  wi'  me,  SkeUy  ?  ' 

*  Whit  fur,  faither  ?  ' 

*  For  clypin'  aboot  the  lady  ? ' 
'  No,  not  angry.' 

The  old  man  gave  a  deep  sigh,  and  let  go  his  hold  on 
his  beard. 

*  Skelly,'  he  said,  takhig  a  little  staggering  run 
towards  his  son,  '  I  'm  no'  thinkin'  ava  o'  a  pilot  reefer 
jaicket ;  I  'm  no'  wantin'  ane.  I  was  only  lettin'  on. 
Barnacles  an'  me  is  goin'  to  buy  a  powny  for  ye  wi'  my 
pension.    Ye  're  no'  angry  wi'  me  ?  ' 

And  the  hardened  campaigner  of  South  Africa 
almost  broke  down  before  the  face  of  his  aged  parent. 
He  was  forced  to  turn  away,  making  a  choking  sound 
in  his  throat. 

*  A'  richt,  faither  ;  I  '11  be  braw  an'  gled  o'  a  powny.' 
'  It 's  me  that  will  be  prood,  prood,  Skelly.' 
Skelly  heard  a  gurgling  sound  which  signified  that 

the  old  man  was  laughing — a  little  hysterically. 


XII 

Barnacles  followed  the  maid  blindly,  scarcely  more 
than  conscious  that  this  was  a  larger  room  than  the 
one  he  had  been  in  before.  She  rose  to  meet  him,  an 
open  book  in  her  hand.     It  was  his  own,  The  Apology 


BARNACLES  279 

of  Socrates.  She  put  the  book  behind  her  back  and 
looked  at  him  with  such  strange  imploring  eyes  as 
he  had  never  seen.  There  was  a  wound  in  them  of 
dark,  dumb  sorrow. 

He  could  not  speak  for  a  moment.  She  wellnigh 
breathed  for  him.  He  seemed  to  feel  the  movements 
of  her  heart  as  his  own. 

*  God  has  made  you  marvellously,'  he  burst  out.  *  I 
cannot  teU  it ' — he  made  a  gesture  of  impotence — *  but 
that  is  nothing,  nothing.  Were  I  to  tell  you  all  the 
admiration  I  feel,  the  gratitude — all  the  happiness  of 
my  life  has  come  from  you ' 

He  had  had  no  food  for  many  hours  ;  his  wet  clothes 
had  dried  upon  him  ;  he  was  swaying  on  his  feet ;  his 
face  was  of  unusual  pallor. 

*  What  is  it  ?  are  you  ill  ?  '  Her  eyes  had  now  a 
startled  look. 

*  No,  I  am  not  ill ;  I  have  come  to  you,'  broke  with 
a  sob  from  his  breast ;  *  my  father  and  I  are  friends. 
You  have  been  to  where  I  live — ^you  went  to  that  poor 
house — I  heard  it — ^it  is  how  the  angels  go.' 

Mrs.  Normanshire  seemed  turned  to  stone. 

*  I  never  dreamt  of  such  an  honour — ^there  is  no  end 
to  the  wonder  of  your  heart.' 

Mrs.  Normanshire  turned  her  face  away  more  and 
more.  The  sight  of  Barnacles  was  unbearable.  She 
seemed  scarcely  to  breathe  through  her  half-parted 
lips.     Despair  was  in  her  face. 

Barnacles  was  gazing  at  her  with  blind  worship, 
was  waiting  to  hear  her  speak  or  make  a  sign  ;  but 
she  remained  silent  and  still. 

'  I  have  ofEended  you,  I  will  go  away — I  wanted  to 
tell  you,  or  my  heart  wotdd  burst.' 


280  BARNACLES 

*  I  am  not  offended,' 

Her  voice  was  so  low  that  it  was  almost  inaudible. 
A  quiver  passed  through  her  frame. 

*  Oh  !  what  have  I  done  ;  are  you  weeping  ?  '  The 
voice  of  Barnacles  was  charged  with  agony.  He  was 
forced  to  press  his  hand  over  the  pang  in  his  heart. 

*  You  must  go  away — Cleave  me  now.' 

She  spoke  slowly,  in  a  whisper,  with  great  effort. 
And  still  she  kept  her  face  from  him.  '  Go — I  will 
tell  you  again — ^give  me  your  hand.' 

She  stretched  out  her  own  behind  her. 

Barnacles  dropped  on  his  knees  and  took  her  hand. 

*  0  flower !  flower  of  heaven ! '  he  sobbed  over  it. 
For  a  minute  they  remained  thus,  her  face  averted, 
her  eyes  closed,  the  despair  in  her  face  vanishing  in 
the  light  of  bliss.  .  .  .  She  stood  on  the  same  spot  as 
if  she  were  a  pillar  of  stone,  her  hand  hanging  at  her 
side,  his  kiss  warm  and  tingling  on  her  palm. 

When  she  heard  him  leave  the  house,  she  sank  on 
the  sofa  and  covered  her  face  in  the  curve  of  her  left 
arm.  The  hand  that  was  kissed  hung  at  her  side  as  if 
it  were  dead. 

XIII 

What  a  box  !  It  seemed  to  be  a  mine  of  things — a 
pair  of  boots,  three  pairs  of  stockings,  and  a  complete 
suit  for  wee  Kitchener.  In  five  minutes  everything 
was  on  4iim  save  the  two  extra  pair  of  stockings.  He 
nearly  leapt  to  the  ceiling  when  he  put  his  hand  in  the 
brand-new  pocket  of  the  trousers  and  pulled  out  a 
shining  knife.  Skelly  was  walking  round  the  box  and 
his  son  as  if  he  were  mesmerised.     Barnacles  whispered 


BARNACLES  281 

to  him  twice,  *  It 's  from  her  ;   she  sent  it  all,'  before 
he  understood. 

But  aU  that  was  nothing.  Below  wee  Kitchener's 
suit  lay  a  waistcoat.  Barnacles  picked  it  up  and 
opened  its  folds.     It  was  lined  with  red  flannel. 

*  Take  ofiE  your  jacket  and  vest,'  he  said  to  the  old 
man,  who  in  dumb  amazement  put  on  the  waistcoat 
and  smoothed  down  its  front  with  his  wrinkled  hands. 

*  It's  as  warm  as  a  pie,'  he  cried.  '  Ay,  ay,  Mr.  Mate, 
I  '11  stand  the  dog-watch  now.' 

He  began  flinging  his  arms  about  as  he  revelled  in  the 
soft  warmth. 

'  It 's  like  fat  on  the  bones,  Skelly  ;  I  'm  as  cosy  as 
a  cat.' 

At  this  moment  Barnacles  held  up  the  jacket.  The 
lamp-light  glittered  on  the  blue  glossiness  of  the  velvet 
collar,  and  flashed  on  the  large  brass  buttons. 

The  old  man's  eyes  shone,  and  having  stared  open- 
mouthed  for  a  minute,  he  threw  up  his  arms  and  began 
to  jump  about  the  room,  laughing  incessantly.  Now 
and  again  he  would  stop,  look  at  the  jacket,  and  begin 
his  capers  again. 

*  God  save  us  ! '  cried  Skelly,  '  he 's  ta'en  leave  o'  his 
senses.' 

The  old  man  was  now  dancing  in  front  of  the  jacket 
as  a  savage  leaps  before  his  fetish. 

'  Is  it  mine,  Barnacles,  mine  ?  God  keep  us  a'  !  to 
think  my  pension  would  get  the  likes  o'  that.' 

He  made  a  sudden  pounce  at  the  coat.  The  depth 
and  softness  of  the  pile  amazed  him.  His  trembling 
fingers  were  feeling  aU  over  it.     He  buried  his  face  in  it. 

'  I  never  thocht  there  was  the  like  o'  that  in  a'  the 
wide  warld.' 


282  BARNACLES 

-    *  Put  it  on,'  said  Barnacles. 

*  Willi  I  ? '  he  asked,  as  if  it  were  sacred. 
Barnacles  held  it  out. 

*  Wull  I  no'  better  trim  my  whisker  ?  ' 

*  Never  mind  your  whisker,  you  can  dae  that  the 
mom,  faither,'  said  Skelly,  with  tears  of  laughter  on  his 
cheeks. 

The  old  man's  hands  were  trembling  so  violently 
that  Skelly  had  to  guide  them  into  the  sleeves. 

Immediately  the  jacket  was  on,  the  seaman's  laughter 
and  chatter  ceased.  He  allowed  Barnacles  to  button 
it  and  to  tie  the  black  sUk  scarf  round  his  neck.  His 
knees  were  shaking  so  that  they  almost  gave  way 
beneath  him. 

He  presented  a  comical  appearance  with  his  ragged 
trousers  and  broken  boots  appearing  beneath  the  jacket. 
He  continued  staring  down  its  length  in  sUence. 

'  Barnacles,'  he  whispered,  his  voice  shaken  out  of 
him,  '  I  'm  frichtened.' 

*  So  weel  ye  micht,  faither,'  SkeUy  laughed ;  '  ye  look 
like  a  brass  foondry.' 

*  Skelly  is  only  joking,'  soothed  Barnacles ;  *  you  're 
magnificent ;  you  're  just  like  the  finest  captain  ever 
was.' 

The  old  man's  face  grew  full  of  alarm. 

*  No  !  no  !  I  'm  no'  a  captain ;  I  'm  a  done  auld  man ; 
I  canna  set  a  coorse  ;  I  was  never  oot  o'  the  fo'c'sle  a' 
my  life.     Let  me  bide.' 

He  was  trying  desperately  to  unbutton  the  jacket  as 
he  spoke,  but  his  palsied  fingers  were  unequal  to  the 
task.     He  gazed  about  him  with  a  hunted  look. 

'  Gie  me  my  auld  jaicket ' :  there  were  tears  in  his 
voice. 


BARNACLES  288 

Skelly's  eye  caught  sight  of  a  telescope  in  the  box. 
He  picked  it  up. 

'  Here  ye  are,  skipper,'  and  he  thrust  the  instrument 
into  the  old  man's  hands, 

*  There  noo  ;  ye  're  complete  ;   spy-gless  an'  a'.' 
The  old  man's  alarm  gave  way  to  terror. 

*  Ye  '11  send  me  to  my  grave,'  he  sobbed.  '  I  '11  be  in 
the  asylum.  I  'm  no'  a  captain  at  a'.  I  was  only 
lettin'  on.  I  don't  ken  the  wy  to  spy  at  the  sun.'  He 
looked  as  if  the  jacket  were  the  famous  poison  shirt  of 
classical  myth  draining  his  life  away. 

*  I  'm  wantin'  my  auld  jacket ;  I  'U  be  fair  affrontit  * 
— he  walked  up  to  Barnacles  with  tears  in  his  eyes — 
*  tak  it  off,  Barnacles,  before  I  drap  doon  deid.' 

Barnacles  took  off  the  pilot  reefer  jacket. 

The  old  man  hardly  slept.  In  the  deep  of  the  night 
he  was  devoured  with  a  desire  to  rise  and  look  into  the 
box,  and  lay  trembling,  restrained  only  by  the  thought 
of  what  SkeUy  would  say  if  he  was  discovered.  In  the 
darkness  the  jacket  burned  with  blue  and  gold  before 
his  eyes. 

XIV 

In  the  morning  he  narrowly  watched  Barnacles  and 
Skelly  until  they  had  left  the  house  in  order  to  sell  the 
sheep.  Never  since  mirrors  were  made  were  such 
preparations. 

Snip  !  snip  !  !  snip  !  !  !  the  long  white  beard  with 
the  yeUow  stain  down  its  middle  was  certainly  being 
trimmed.  And  shortened !  And  shaped  torpedo- 
wise  !  He  was  beginning  to  change  even  in  the  eyes  of 
wee  Kitchener,  who,  already  apparelled  in  the  glory  of 


284  BARNACLES 

his  own  new  clothes,  shouted,  *  Grandfaither,  ye  don't 
look  like  a  nanny-goat  noo.'  But  grandfaither  was 
deaf.  What  contortions  of  the  features,  what  diverse 
expressions  he  made  before  the  mirror,  capturing  the 
face  of  a  hundred  captains  in  aU  their  moods  of  com- 
mand. He  was  haughty,  he  was  dignified  ;  aloof, 
important,  impatient,  ironical. 

'  Are  ye  daft,  grandfaither  ?  '  came  a  small  voice 
half  of  fear. 

'  Diima  ye  gang  to  schule  the  day.  This  is  a  day  in 
port,'  was  the  pert  answer. 

After  his  face,  he  washed  his  feet,  and  began  to 
dress.  As  he  hitched  his  braces  he  cried  in  a  loud 
voice,  '  Man  the  lee  braces.' 

Wee  Kitchener,  who  had  forgotten  his  own  clothes 
in  watching  the  antics  of  his  grandsire,  answered  : 

'  Your  galluses  is  a'  richt,  grandfaither.' 

'  You  an'  your  galluses ;  dae  ye  no'  ken  what  the 
lee  braces  is  ?  ' 

*  Ay,  grandfaither,  your  galluses.' 

The  old  man  had  by  now  put  on  the  waistcoat.  He 
took  another  look  in  the  mirror,  pulled  his  pointed 
and  somewhat  ragged  beard,  and  approached  the 
jacket.  As  he  did  so  he  kept  rising  and  falling  from 
toe  to  heel — a  habit  of  a  captain  with  whom  he  had 
sailed.  He  let  his  eye  rest  on  the  soft  pile,  its  rich 
coUar,  its  stupendous  buttons.  It  became  a  thing 
remote  from  life  to  this  ancient  child,  the  heritor  of  a 
resplendent  and  terrible  sea.  The  jacket  gathered  up 
the  glories  of  the  deep,  the  magic  of  ships,  the  wonders 
of  a  thousand  harbours.  He  lifted  it ;  and  there  was 
wafted  from  it  a  whiff  of  violet,  that  was  transformed 
for  him  into  tropical  odours.     He  laid  the  jacket  on 


BARNACLES  285 

the  bed,  backed  away  from  it,  approached  mmcmg, 
tip-toeing.  His  eye  fell  on  the  silk  scarf.  He  picked 
up  the  gleaming  fabric  ;  and  its  softness  and  sheen 
sent  a  thrill  through  his  body.  He  tied  it  about  his 
scraggy  neck,  and  as  if  the  touch  had  fired  him,  he 
seized  the  jacket  and  put  it  on.  His  heart  swelled  ; 
his  body  appeared  to  expand.  He  began  pacing  up 
and  down  the  quarter-deck.  At  the  end  of  one  turn 
he  snatched  up  the  telescope,  and  without  opening  it 
out  or  taking  off  the  brass  cap,  clapped  it  to  his  eye. 
Puzzled  at  the  darkness,  he  put  it  under  his  arm,  and 
once  more  started  pacing  the  quarter-deck. 

Suddenly  he  stopped,  raised  himself  on  his  toes,  and 
cried  in  a  shrill  voice  : 

*  Swarm  aloft  there.' 

Wee  Kitchener  ran  to  his  grandfather's  side  just 
when  he  stamped  on  the  floor,  and  said  : 

'  Is  that  a  puddin',  grandfaither  ?  '  and  put  out  a 
timorous  finger  to  the  telescope. 

His  grandfather,  tremendously  excited,  had  his 
attention  drawn  to  the  boy. 

'  Kitchener  !   what  is  yom*  grandfaither  like  ?  ' 

The  boy  solemnly  eyed  his  ancestor. 

*  The  bobby  in  the  Square,'  he  squealed. 

*  Are  ye  blin',  wean  ;  tak  a  guid  look,'  and  wheeling 
screamed  lq  his  cracked  voice,  '  helm  down  ;  hard 
down ;  ease  her.'  As  he  spoke  he  stepped  to  the 
stronger  light  at  the  window,  followed  by  Kitchener, 
who  surmised  there  was  a  secret  in  the  wonderful 
jacket.     It  was  soon  revealed. 

*  Is  that  a'  the  eddication  ye  get  in  schule  nooadays  ? 
Did  ye  never  see  a  captain  ?  ' 

'  No,'  answered  wee  Kitchener,  in  awe. 


286  BARNACLES 

*  Weel,  tak  a  guid  look  ;  ye  're  seein'  ane  noo.' 
The  hands  were  thrust  deep  in  the  pockets,  the  tele- 
scope was  gripped  in  the  oxter. 

*  Man  the  top-gallants.' 

*  What 's  that,  grandfaither  ?  ' 

'  Up  aloft  wi'  ye,  if  ye  dinna  want  the  rope's-end.' 

*  I  canna  sclim  up  there,  grandfaither ' ;  the  tremu- 
lous voice  broke  in  a  sob  of  fear. 

'  Cryin'  for  a  puff  o'  win'.  Kitchener.'  The  old  man's 
face  was  burning  with  hectic  spots  ;  his  eyes  had  a 
feverish  glitter.  '  I  've  seen  when  it  was  dark,  ay, 
dark,  an'  the  air  fou  o'  water,  an'  the  win'  mad, 
Kitchener,  fair  mad ;  life-lines  rigged.  She  could 
hardly  clear  her  decks  ;  smashed  doon  wi'  every  sea. 
Kitchener.  Thon  's  where  ye  see  God.  Men  hae  no 
call  to  be  feart  o'  God  in  Paisla'.  Glass  as  low  as  your 
boots.  Kitchener  ;  wanted  to  push  up  the  mercury  wi' 
your  fingers.  Men  hae  no'  call  to  fear  the  Almighty 
in  a  public-hoose  in  Paisla'.  That 's  the  wy  they 
booze  an'  sweir.  It 's  terrific  wi'  the  wee  stars  in  the 
black  sky  lookin'  doon  at  ye,  an'  you  oot  on  the  yaird- 
airm,  an'  the  black  seas  movin'  on  ye  like  Ben  Lomon' 
mountains.  Ye  don't  feel  caul'  or  wet.  Kitchener ; 
ye  just  listen  to  the  roar  oot  in  the  blackness  an'  ye 
feel  empty  a'  inside  ye,  an'  ye  fear  God,  Kitchener,  ye 
fear  God,  an'  ye  look  up  at  the  wee  stars  the  size  o' 
your  eye  for  the  last  time.  Ye  're  no'  drooned  oot 
yonder.  Ye  're  just  drooned  in  burns  an'  lochs  an' 
nairrow  waters.  Ye  're  whipped  awa  intae  eternity 
wi'  the  warld  tummlin'  on  your  held.  Ye  see  thon  hill 
o'  water  wi'  a  white  line  on  the  top  runnin'  up  to  meet 
the  ship,  the  wy  clouds  run  ower  the  sky,  an'  ye  just 
shut  your  eyes,  an'  then  it 's  on  deck  like  a  hammer  o' 


BARNACLES  287 

thunder  frae  the  Lord,  an'  the  ship  she  just  stops  deid. 
Another  o'  them  an'  we  're  gone,  Mr.  Mate.  Ye  just 
feel  seeck,  Kitchener,  seeck.  Dae  ye  ken  what  the 
fear  o'  God  is  ?  it 's  no  in  the  Paisla'  folk — boozin'  in 
the  pubs.' 

*  No,  I  don't  ken,  grandfaither.'  Wee  Kitchener 
had  passed  from  sobs  to  fear.  His  grandfather  was 
acting  and  talking  in  an  alarming  manner. 

*  Ye  dinna  ken  what  the  fear  o'  God  is  ?  It 's  a  thing 
that  maks  ye  keep  your  mooth  shut.  It  maks  ye  feel 
like  a  worm,  an'  emptiness  in  your  beUy,  an'  a'  the 
while  ye  're  kennin'  it 's  gran',  an'  naebody  could 
scoop  thon  glens  o'  seas  but  the  Almighty.  Ye  can 
see  His  haun  movin'  on  the  water.  It  's  fearsome  an' 
awesome.  Kitchener,  an'  it 's  gran'.  It 's  yonder  ye 
ken  wha  God  is,  wi'  the  lee-rail  white ' 

The  seaman,  aU  out  of  breath,  discovered  that  he  was 
alone. 

XV 

'  King  the  bell,  second  mate,  and  let  us  go  below, 
Look  away  to  wind'ard  and  see  it's  goin'  to  blow.' 

At  the  end  of  the  second  line  the  door  opened  and 
blin'  Ned  came  in,  stick  in  hand,  and  his  *  tin  ticket ' 
hanging  on  his  breast. 

'  Ye  're  cheery  the  day,  Hector,'  he  said. 

*  Auld  but  he'rty,  Ned,  thank  God.  It's  keepiu'  blae 
like  an'  caul'  wi'  this  east  wind  ;  but  I  'm  feelin'  gran', 
my  customer  :  I  've  a  new  pilot  reefer  jaicket,'  his  eyes 
sparkled  with  joy ;'  is  it  no'  a  strange  thing,  Ned,  that 
we  're  scrapin'  an'  scartin'  an'  clawin'  ane  anither  a' 
oor  life  for  money,  an'  the  big  shippin'  companies  an* 


288  BARNACLES 

the  skippers,  aifter  they  get  their  hauns  on  the  maist 
o't,  just  get  the  braid  o'  their  back  in  the  en',  an'  here's 
me  withoot  a  drap  o'  sweet  on  my  broo  gettin'  a'  I 
want  in  the  hinder  en'  wi'  my  pension.  No'  that  I 
ever  ate  the  breid  o'  idle-set  a'  my  days  :  but  I  had 
the  fear  o'  God  in  me,  an'  He  's  been  mercifu'  to  me  in 
my  auld  age.' 

Blin'  Ned  was  impatient  of  this  discursiveness. 

'  I  cam  in  to  ax  ye  if  the  placaird  's  on  the  richt  wy  ?  ' 

Sometimes  the  printing  on  the  tin  was  turned 
inward. 

'  The  richt  wy  ;  bring  the  wind  on  starboard,  Mr. 
Mate.  Hold  her  off  two  points.  It 's  going  to  be 
dirty  weather.' 

'  That 's  a  peety,'  said  the  blind  man. 

'  Can't  you  see  ?  Look  away  there  to  windward ;  a 
breeze  is  coming.' 

He  thrust  the  telescope  into  the  hands  of  the  blind 
man. 

*  What  big  caul'  thing  is  this,  Hector  ?  ' 

*  It 's  a  spy-gless,  Ned  ;  ye  can  see  up  to  the  moon 
wi't.' 

*  Can  ye,'  said  the  blind  man  eagerly.  His  hands 
shook  as  he  put  the  telescope  to  his  eye. 

*  I  see  naethin','  he  said,  in  tones  of  disappointment. 
The   seaman  pondered.     He   hated   to  beti^ay   the 

fact  that  he  was  ignorant  of  the  way  of  arranging  the 
instrument. 

'  Just  you  wait,  Ned  ;  Barnacles  is  that  daft  he 
maun  hae  ta'en  awa  a  bit  o'  the  spy-gless.  He  '11  sort 
it  when  he  comes.' 

'  Wull  ye  let  me  look  at  it  when  it 's  sorted  ?  ' 

*  Ay  wull  I,  Ned  ;  ye  '11  see  the  moon.' 


BARNACLES  289 

'  Whaur  did  ye  get  it  ? '  The  blind  man,  his  face  lit 
with  hope,  was  turning  the  brass  cylinder  round  and 
round  in  his  hand. 

*  I  got  it  wi'  my  pension.' 

*  Wull  ye  get  ane  for  me  ?  ' 

The  pitying  look  on  the  seaman's  face  was  lost  on  Ned. 

*  Man,'  he  said,  '  ye  haena  the  money  ;  it 's  only  the 
captains  o'  big  ships  that  cairry  them.  It  taks  a  heap 
o'  money  to  buy  them.' 

The  blind  man's  mouth  drooped. 

*  That 's  a  peety,'  he  said ;  '  I  wish  ye  hadna  told  me 
at  a'.' 

*  Never  mind,  Ned  ;  I  'U  let  ye  try  on  my  waistcoat. 
I  got  it  as  weel,  an'  a  pilot  reefer  wi'  brass  buttons. 
I  hae  them  on  me  ee  noo,  Ned.  I  'm  as  warm  as  the 
oven.' 

The  blind  man  put  out  one  of  his  hands. 

*  I  feel  the  buttons,'  he  said. 

*  They  're  braw,  braw,  Ned.'  The  seaman  peered  in 
at  his  companion's  face.  '  Wad  ye  like  to  try  on  the 
waistcoat  ?  ' 

*Ay!  wad  I  no'?' 

They  began  to  strip,  Ned  ridding  himself  of  placard 
and  stick  as  well.     Presently  he  had  on  the  waistcoat. 

'  Ay  !  it 's  just  like  an  oven.  I  wish  I  had  this  on 
thae  caul'  aiftemoons  on  my  stance.' 

'  There  !  there  !  ye  're  a  deep-water  man  noo,  Ned  ; 
staun  up  on  your  taes  an'  gae  doon  on  your  heels.' 

The  old  man  took  Ned  by  the  arm-pits,  lifted  him 
up,  and  allowed  him  to  sink  down. 

*  That 's  the  wy  ;  are  ye  at  me  noo,  Ned  ?  Cry  oot, 
cry  oot,  "  Ease  her,  ease  her  when  she  pitches,  you 
damn  sojer  !  "  ' 

T 


290  BARNACLES 

'  Ease  her ! '  shouted  Ned,  who  had  a  sonorous  voice. 
The  old  man  skipped  about. 

*  Ay,  ay,  sir ! ' 

*  "  Keep  handy  the  watch  to  shorten  sail "  ;  cry  it 
cot,  Ned.' 

*  WuU  I  can  see  through  the  spy-gless  when  Barnacles 
sorts  it  ?  '  the  blind  man  replied. 

The  seaman  got  angry. 

*  You  for  a  captain !  Ye  're  only  fit  to  staun  an' 
beg  at  the  corners.  Look  out  for  yoursel ;  there  's  a 
sea  comin' ;  are  ye  no'  seein'  it,  Ned  ?  she  '11  no'  stand 
up  to  it ;  she  '11  go  this  time.' 

He  was  reeling  about  the  floor. 

*  Is  my  writin'  to  the  front,  Hector  ?  ' 

'  She  's  clearing  hersel.  Steady  the  fore-yards  there. 
Man  the  lee  braces.' 

'  Is  the  writing  on  the  placard  to  the  front, 
Hector  ?  ' 

*  Try  the  well,  carpenter ;  get  the  man  on  the 
pumps.     Keep  her  going,  Mr.  Mate.' 

Blin'  Ned,  conceiving  that  Hector  had  taken  leave 
of  his  senses,  groped  his  way  to  the  door.  As  he  went 
along  the  lobby  he  heard  an  excited  voice  behind  him  : 

*  Tally  on,  men  ;  haul  out ;  make  fast ;  to  the  main 
topsail ! ' 

BUn'  Ned  reached  the  street  wearing  warm  against 
his  body  a  waistcoat  of  the  softest  of  red  flannel. 

'  God ! '  he  said  to  himself, '  I  could  lie  doon  an'  sleep 
in  this.' 

By  and  by  the  old  man,  who  had  grown  accustomed 
to  the  jacket,  followed  into  the  lobby,  crept  down  the 
stairs,  and  came  to  the  mouth  of  the  close  where  he 
stood  with  his  cheek  buried  in  the  velvet  collar.     He 


BARNACLES  291 

was  debating  with  himself  what  *  airt '  he  would  go 
when  a  woman,  who  was  passing  with  a  basket  on  her 
arm  and  a  key  in  her  hand,  stopped  at  the  close-mouth 
to  take  a  fresh  grip  with  her  teeth  of  the  shawl  which 
she  wore  over  her  head.  At  sight  of  the  old  man  she 
spat  out  the  shawl. 

*  Sirce  the  day  !  whaur  did  ye  steal  the  jaicket  ?  ' 
The  old  man  recoiled  as  if  he  had  been  struck,  vainly 

trying  to  conceal  from  the  woman's  prying  eye  the 
splendour  of  the  buttons.     As  he  crept  away  without 
answering  some  one  was  running  into  the  close.     It 
was  wee  Kitchener  home  at  '  the  dinner  hour.' 
The  old  man  divested  himself  of  the  garment. 

*  Are  ye  gaun  to  bed  ? '  said  the  boy. 
The  old  man  shook  his  head. 

*  I  canna  weir 't,  Kitchener ;  the  buttons  is  too  braw.* 

*  Bobbies  hae  braw  buttons,  grandfaither.' 

*  Ay  !  chape  metal.  Kitchener,  that  '11  turn  black 
wi'  a  shooer  o'  rain  ;  they  're  no  brass.  They  're  ower 
braw,  mines.  I  canna  thole  the  sicht.  The  folk  wiU 
glower  at  me.  "  Whaur  did  auld  Hector  steal  the 
jaicket  ? "  that 's  what  they  '11  say.  Is  it  no'  terrible  the 
envy  in  some  folk's  he'rt  ?  They  blin'  me.  Kitchener  ; 
they  blin'  me  in  the  braid  licht,  thae  buttons.' 

He  put  on  his  old  ragged  coat  with  a  hole  in  the  left 
elbow. 

XVI 

Blin'  Ned,  wondering  if  Barnacles  had  sorted  the 
thing  you  can  see  with  up  to  the  moon,  rose  betimes 
and  knocked  at  SkeUy's  door.  Getting  no  answer  he 
entered,  saying  : 


292  BARNACLES 

*  It  *s  a  fine  momin'.' 

And  again,  '  Are  ye  in,  Hector  ?  ' 

He  began  groping  around. 

The  seaman  was  absent.  As  soon  as  wee  Kitchener 
had  left  for  school,  and  Skelly  and  Barnacles  for 
Battlemains  to  consult  Mr.  Brocklehurst  about  a  pony, 
he  took  out  the  jacket.  For  an  hour  a  terrible  battle 
raged  in  his  mind.  It  was  impossible  to  wear  the 
jacket  with  its  brass  buttons,  and  his  one  desire  in 
life  was  to  show  it  in  the  High  Street  of  Paisley,  and 
among  his  cronies  who  sit  blinking  in  Dunn  Square. 

'  If  I  don't  tak  aff  the  buttons  there  '11  be  naethin' 
left  but  to  weir  it  in  the  hoose,'  he  concluded. 

This  prospect  was  so  mournful  that,  laying  the 
jacket  on  the  bed,  he  went  out  to  indulge  in  a  rare 
pleasure.  He  was  going  to  examine  the  windows  of 
Paisley  in  order  to  buy  black  buttons.  .  .  .  Soon  his 
red  nose  was  glued  to  the  window  panes  of  the  shops, 
and  his  feeble  eyes  were  sparkling.  .  .  . 

*  Are  ye  no'  up  yet,  Hector  ?  '  said  blin'  Ned. 
Convinced  now  that  the  room  was  empty,  he  began 

feverishly  to  search  for  the  thing  that  can  mak  ye 
see  richt  up  to  the  moon.  He  knocked  against  the 
box  ;  felt  in  it ;  went  from  chair  to  chair  ;  tried  the 
dresser  and  the  table  and  the  back  of  the  door.  He 
was  despairing  when  his  hands  fell  and  sank  in  the 
depths  of  something  soft  and  warm  on  the  bed.  It  was 
the  jacket.  Over  the  bed  the  hands  wandered  for  the 
telescope  ;  over  and  over  in  vain.  It  might  be  below 
the  jacket.  He  lifted  it.  It  was  wondrous  heavy  ; 
and  there  bulging  in  it  was  the  wonderful  spy-glass. 

At  once  blin'  Ned  retreated  to  his  own  home,  and 
presently  the  telescope,  buried  away  in  a  deep  pocket 


BARNACLES  298 

on  the  inside  of  this  wonderful  jacket,  was  in  his 
trembling  hands.  One  end  and  the  other  end  he  put 
to  his  eye.  Darkness  !  He  roUed  it  round  and  round 
in  his  hands,  shook  it,  hammered  it  with  his  fist.  Still 
blank  darkness  ! 

A  thought  had  come  to  him.  He  would  keep  it  until 
his  brother  came  home.  He  was  '  learning  engineerin',' 
and  would  make  it  all  right. 

He  hid  the  telescope  underneath  the  mattress.  But 
the  old  seaman  would  miss  the  jacket.  If  he  came 
and  found  it  here,  he  would  search  for  his  spy-glass  tiU 
he  found  it.  There  was  only  one  thing  to  do.  He  put 
off  his  own  jacket,  put  on  the  famous  pilot  reefer,  and 
with  agile  movement,  surprising  in  a  blind  man, 
whipped  out  the  spy-glass  and  conveyed  it,  after  a 
good  deal  of  fumbling,  to  the  inside  pocket.  Then  he 
put  on  '  the  tin  ticket '  which  concealed  the  first  row  of 
buttons,  and  leaving  his  door  standing  open  in  his 
flight  he  set  off  for  his  first  stance  on  the  Abbey  Bridge, 
where  the  Cart  runs  black  and  foul  and  stained  with 
chemicals  from  the  mills  of  Paisley. 

The  passers-by  stopped  and  looked  and  even  dis- 
cussed the  sight :  and  he  received  in  his  tin  that  morn- 
ing a  coin  from  many  a  one  who  before  had  never 
noticed  him. 

Blin'  Ned's  brain  was  busy  with  plans  for  the  pro- 
curing of  such  a  wonderful  jacket  for  himself. 

In  the  midst  of  these  pleasing  thoughts  he  heard  a 
woman's  voice  say,  'Where  did  ye  fa'  heir  to  the 
jaicket  ?  ' 

He  did  not  know  what  to  answer. 

Questions  of  this  import  became  quite  frequent  on 
the  lips  of  the  passers-by  and  blin'  Ned  became  uneasy, 


294  BARNACLES 

and  at  last  wished  he  was  at  home.  Only  the  pennies 
were  dropping  like  rain  into  his  tin.  He  could  feel 
their  weight  in  the  pocket  of  the  jacket. 

Street  boys  kicking  a  tin  can  reached  him — that  sort 
of  ruffians  of  some  twenty  years  who  spend  their  time 
gambling,  drinking,  and  prowling  about  at  night.  The 
blind  man  dreaded  them,  for  they  had  picked  his 
pocket  more  than  once. 

There  were  three  of  them,  and  immediately  they 
caught  sight  of  him  they  left  the  tin  can  and  ran  jeer- 
ing and  pointing  at  the  jacket,  saying  he  had  robbed  a 
corpse. 

This  terrified  the  blind  man.  Perhaps  Hector  was 
dead ;  where  could  he  be  at  this  time  in  the  morning  ? 
why  had  he  not  answered  if  he  were  alive  ? 

The  hooligans  attracted  the  attention  of  the  police. 
Blin'  Ned,  afraid  he  was  going  to  be  robbed,  turned  up 
his  blank  eyes  and  quavered,  '  I  'm  scart  to  daith  o' 
thae  blaiggarts,'  when  having  heard  the  shout, '  Here 's 
the  cops,'  he  heard  also  a  heavy  footstep  at  his  side. 

'  Where  did  you  get  this  jacket  ?  '  said  a  gruff 
voice. 

'  It 's  no'  mine,'  he  whispered  through  dry  lips. 

*  No  doubt  of  that ;  where  did  you  get  it  ?  ' 

Blin'  Ned  saw  that  he  was  a  thief.  It  was  a  terrible 
thing  to  rob  a  dead  man  of  his  jacket.  He  picked  up 
his  stick,  which  was  leaning  against  the  wall,  and  took 
a  step  away.    A  heavy  hand  feU  on  his  shoulder. 

*  Stop,'  said  the  voice  very  sternly. 
Blin'  Ned  began  to  tremble. 

*  Let  me  go  1  I  'm  no'  a  vaigabond.' 

*  Did  you  steal  this  jacket  ?  * 

*  I  canna  see  to  steal :  I  just  took  a  lend  o't.' 


BARNACLES  295 

A  hand  was  laid  on  the  bulge  of  the  telescope. 
'  What  have  you  got  here  ?  ' 

*  It 's  naethin'  but  a  spy-gless.' 
'  Take  it  out.' 

Blin'  Ned  slowly  unbuttoned  the  coat  and  took  out 
the  telescope. 

'  What  are  you  doing  with  this  ? '  came  the  voice. 

*  I  was  wantin'  to  see  the  moon.' 

'  Don't  try  that  on.     Where  did  you  take  it  from  ? ' 

'  A  freend.' 

'  What  friend  ?  ' 

*  I  canna  teU  ye  ;  p'r'aps  he  's  deid.' 
The  grip  on  his  shoulder  tightened. 

*  Come  along  with  me.' 

After  a  long  time  he  felt  that  he  was  in  a  room 
standing  at  a  fire.  Another  voice  bade  him  take  off 
the  jacket. 

'  Gie  me  the  bawbees  in  the  pooch  ;  they  're  mine.' 

*  Where  did  you  get  them  ?  ' 

'  On  the  Aibbey  Brig  wi'  my  tin  can  ;  I  'm  blin'.' 
'  Are  you  ? '  said  another  voice  out  of  the  darkness. 
And  blin'  Ned  redeemed  that  hour  of  the  humilia- 
tion of  man  by  his  brother  man  by  blurting  out : 

*  Ye  'd  better  ax  the  Almighty  !  ' 

Again  he  was  cross-examined,  and  answered  dourly  : 
'  Ye  can  question  me  tiU  ye  're  tongue-tired  ;   I  ken 

na  wha  gied  ye  the  richt  to  lift  me  aff  the  street ; 

but  I  winna  teU  ye  mair.     I  just  took  a  len'  o'  the 

jaicket.' 

*  Where  do  you  live  1  ' 

*  Number  six  Cotton  Street,  up  the  stair  ;  the  first 
door.' 

A  policeman  was  sent  there.    Blin'  Ned  was  allowed 


296  BARNACLES 

to  sit  down  until  his  return.     The  policeman  came  back 
with  the  blind  man's  jacket  in  a  bundle. 

*  Is  this  your  jacket  ?  '  he  was  asked. 
Blin'  Ned  felt  over  it. 

'  Ay  ;   that 's  mine.' 

*  When  did  you  wear  it  ? ' 

*  The  day.' 

*  And  when  did  you  get  the  jacket  with  the  brass 
buttons  ?  ' 

*  The  day.' 
'  Where  ?  ' 

And  blin'  Ned,  taken  unawares,  nearly  fell  into  the 
trap. 

'  I  '11  teU  ye  nocht  mair,'  he  said.  '  I  told  ye  already 
I  canna  see  to  steal.' 

He  heard  voices  in  consultation,  '  No  evidence ;  he 
would  hardly  wear  it  in  public'  Then  a  voice  addressed 
him : 

*You  can  go;  we'U  keep  the  jacket;  there  will 
likely  be  a  complaint  lodged  ;  mind  you,  we  know 
where  to  find  you  when  we  discover  about  your 
theft.' 

*  Gie  me  my  bawbees,'  said  blin'  Ned,  his  teeth 
chattering. 

'  You  'U  have  to  prove  the  money  belongs  to  you.' 

And  another  voice  said, '  Let  the  poor  devil  have  the 
money.     He  's  blind  right  enough.' 

He  was  detained  until  his  name,  address,  age,  and 
description  were  entered  into  a  ledger ;  then,  over- 
whelmed with  shame,  he  crept  home,  carrying  the  tin 
placard  in  his  hand. 

As  stealthily  as  though  he  were  a  thief  he  stole  into 
the  house,  shutting  the  door  behind  him  as  quietly  as 


BARNACLES  297 

he  could.  He  hirpled  to  the  bed,  climbed  in,  and 
turned  his  face  to  the  wall. 

He  had  not  cried  when  his  mother  was  found  dead. 
But  now  !  It  is  a  pitiable  thing  to  see  blistering  tears 
in  the  sightless  eyes  of  one  whose  face  is  turned  towards 
the  wall. 

The  seaman,  who  had  enjoyed  himseK  hugely  as  he 
passed  from  window  to  window  like  a  bee  going  from 
flower  to  flower,  at  length  returned  home  with  eight 
big  black  buttons.  He  knew  where  SkeUy  kept  the 
thread,  the  needles,  the  thimble.  He  would  sew  on 
the  buttons  and  be  ready  to  go  out  in  the  afternoon. 
He  was  thinking  of  these  things  when  he  reached  the 
house.  The  door  was  ajar.  He  pushed  in  and  at 
once  went  to  the  nearest  bed.  He  could  not  believe 
his  eyes.  Ah  !  it  must  be  on  SkeUy's  bed.  He  went 
there,  near  the  fireplace.  It  too  was  empty.  He 
turned  over  the  clothes  ;  he  went  back  to  his  own  bed 
and  pulled  down  its  clothes.  He  ran  to  the  box  ;  got 
down  on  his  knees  under  each  bed. 

Amazement  gave  way  to  stupefaction.  As  he  rose 
to  his  feet  the  buttons  dribbled  out  of  his  hand  and 
rolled  on  the  floor.  Ghastly  pale  he  was  staring  at  the 
bed.  The  room  began  to  swim  about  him  and  to  get 
dark.  He  knew  what  was  coming  ;  tried  to  put  his 
hands  up  to  his  head  ;  but  before  he  could  do  this  he 
fell  on  the  floor.  .  .  . 

Blin'  Ned,  who  had  come  home  so  softly,  did  not 
disturb  him.  The  restrained  sounds  of  his  weeping 
from  the  room  through  the  wall  did  not  waken  Hector. 
The  blind  was  calling  to  the  deaf. 


298  BARNACLES 


XVII 

On  this  day  of  grace  when  the  seaman  lay  with  his 
trimmed  beard  on  the  coverlet  '  seriously  iU  '  and  his 
face  peaked  and  drawn,  the  first  instalment  of  the 
money  that  was  to  have  been  laid  past  in  order  to 
pm-chase  a  pony  went  to  buy  '  port  wine  and  brandy, 
beef  tea,'  and  the  bottle  of  the  prescription — ^those 
things  which  the  medical  practitioner  with  unconscious 
irony  orders  for  the  poor.  The  old  man  lay  breathing, 
and  no  more. 

Barnacles,  to  help  the  straitened  household,  went  to 
coUect  the  arrears  of  pay  due  to  him.  On  his  way  he 
posted  a  letter  to  one,  Jacobina  Dollington,  of  the 
village  of  Brieston  in  the  West  Highlands.  The  reader 
will  perhaps  remember  that  Barnacles,  early  in  the 
course  of  these  annals  of  Cotton  Street,  had  seen  in  the 
columns  of  the  Glasgow  Herald  an  advertisement  for 
an  amanuensis.  He  had  applied  for  the  post  and 
received  a  remarkable  letter  from  this  Jacobina 
Dollington,  asking  him  if  he  thought  and  did  like  every 
one  else  ;  if  he  was  fond  of  money  ;  if  he  ever  let  his 
mind  dwell  on  the  present  state  of  the  human  race  in 
Scotland  ;  and  many  other  questions  of  a  like  tenor 
which  it  baffled  him  to  answer. 

Barnacles,  having  posted  a  meagre  reply  in  which 
he  said  that  the  present  state  of  the  human  race  in 
Scotland,  being  due  to  the  collective  wisdom  and  evU 
of  that  race,  must  be  as  it  was  and  no  other,  went  on 
the  office  of  the  Town  Clerk.  And  there  along  with 
his  pay  he  received  another  letter.  It  was  from  Mr. 
Gilfillan,  and  saying  that  he  regretted  to  hear  that  Mr. 


BARNACLES  299 

Brocklehurst  was  once  more  in  search  of  a  job,  and 
would  he  call  at  the  banker's  house  on  Friday  evening 
'  to  receive  a  doing  for  your  carelessness  and  to  dis- 
cuss with  you  another  sort  of  job.' 

In  the  evening  Barnacles  burst  in  on  the  banker 
in  the  billiard-room,  saying  that  there  had  been  no 
carelessness,  and  explaining  that  the  state  of  his  own 
conscience,  and  the  uncertainty  of  his  father's  life, 
admitted  of  no  delay. 

'  Well,  weU,'  said  the  banker,  '  the  milk  's  spilt ;  let 
it  lie.  I  want  to  talk  to  you  seriously  about  coming 
into  the  bank  where  I  can  have  my  eye  on  you.' 

'  If  I  can  do  anything  to  help  you,  I  '11  be  glad.' 

The  banker  smiled. 

'  I  understand  ;  but  this  time  it  is  the  other  way 
about.  I  wish  to  help  you.  All  you  need  is  a  little 
discipline  and  you  will  turn  out  first  rate.' 

'  I  will  be  amenable,'  answered  Barnacles. 

*  The  pay  is  poor  for  a  beginner  ;  but  I  have  arranged 
with — er — others  about  that.  If  you  attempt  to 
break  bounds  in  the  bank  with  sheep,  dogs,  or  giraffes, 
you  will  be  locked  up  in  a  big  steel  safe.' 

'  I  believe,  sir,  I  am  finished  with  sheep.' 

*  I  hope  so,'  the  banker  shot  out  fervently. 

The  door  of  the  biUiard-room  was  ajar.  At  that 
moment  they  heard  a  piano  being  played  in  another 
room.  It  began  with  a  dirge  as  of  a  requiem- wind 
on  the  tree-tops  of  a  forest ;  it  made  silences  like  the 
falling  of  snow  ;  and  grew  on  the  ear  like  the  gathering 
of  a  tempest  from  the  horizon  of  the  deep. 

The  effect  on  Barnacles  was  remarkable.  Every 
expression,  cadence,  and  swell  of  the  music  found  an 
answering  emotion  on  his  face.    At  first  the  banker 


300  BARNACLES 

went  on  explaining  Barnacles'  position  and  work  in  the 
bank  ;  but  he  soon  recognised  he  was  talking  to  a  deaf 
man.  Barnacles'  head  held  high  was  moving  about 
with  the  slow  stately  motion  of  a  tail  bird  ;  his  body 
was  swaying  to  the  rhythm  of  the  music  ;  now  and 
again  this  movement  would  cease  and  Barnacles  would 
lean  forward,  his  lips  parted,  as  if  he  were  athirst.  All 
at  once  he  gripped  the  banker  by  the  arm,  and  laid  his 
mouth  to  the  banker's  ear. 

*  Who  is  it  ?  '  he  whispered  fiercely. 

*  Mrs.  Normanshire  ;  didn't  know  she  had  come  in.' 
Barnacles  let  go  his  hold  of  the  banker  and  dragged 
himself  to  the  door,  which  he  opened  as  widely  as 
possible.  His  face  was  like  that  of  a  sinner,  getting 
glimpses  of  heaven  which  he  is  not  allowed  to  enter. 

He  came  back  to  the  banker,  his  face  transfigured. 

*  It  is  a  gift,'  he  said. 

The  banker  nodded  approvingly. 

*  Yes ;  she  's  got  a  decided  gift ;  her  father  had  it.' 
Barnacles  made  a  gesture  as  if  he  were  in  a  rage. 

*  I  don't  mean  that.  It  is  a  gift  to  me  and  you — one 
with  the  great  unsought  gifts — ^the  dawn,  the  song  of 
birds.  I  am  poor  and  feeble.  I  am  not  worthy  of 
this.'  He  held  up  his  head  to  hearken  as  the  music 
burst  from  the  piano  in  a  storm  of  tears. 

*  Blessed  are  the  fingers  that  are  loading  me  with 
benefits,'  he  cried  out  in  a  loud  voice.  *  I  have  asked 
for  nothing  ;  I  am  getting  all — aU ' 

To  the  banker,  now  amazed.  Barnacles  appeared  to 
be  in  high  indignation. 

'  I  have  not  shed  one  tear  on  her  behalf  ;  her  hands 
have  laboured,  her  fingers  have  toUed  to  learn,  and  she 
is  pouring  it  out  on  me  full  and  beautiful  and  free.' 


BARNACLES  301 

The  banker  had  never  thought  of  Mrs.  Normanshire's 
exquisite  playing  in  this  striking  way. 

'  She  has  paid  for  her  learning,'  he  said,  and  his  voice 
and  his  eyes  were  sad. 

*  Ah !  my  God !  '  cried  Barnacles,  *  she  is  regal. 
What  light  she  makes  in  the  world ! ' 

The  music  lingered,  died,  its  echo  hanging  on  the 
air  like  the  dissipating  scent  of  flowers, 

A  cart  rattled  past  on  the  road  ;  a  late  bee  twanged 
across  the  garden,  floating  within  its  pleasant  drone. 
Barnacles  was  listening  to  the  enveloping  silence,  in 
whose  heart  slumbered  the  golden  music,  like  a  jewel 
within  a  crystal  box  sending  out  silent  gleams  of  light. 

'  Is  it  finished  ?  '  he  said,  his  mouth  hanging  open 
like  a  child  watching  the  last  of  a  mighty  sunset,  and 
asking  its  mother  if  the  light  would  not  return  to  the 
hill-tops. 

The  banker  shook  himself  like  an  old  lion ;  but 
before  he  could  speak  the  music  began  once  more. 

At  the  first  notes  Barnacles  left  the  billiard-room 
with  long  soft  strides  ;  and  when  the  banker  entered 
the  drawing-room  he  discovered  Barnacles  standing 
in  the  middle  of  the  floor  with  his  eyes  fastened  on 
Mrs.  Normanshire.  Mrs.  Gflfillan  was  sitting  at  the 
other  end  of  the  room,  a  book  open  on  her  lap,  staring 
at  the  tall  apparition  in  the  midst  of  the  floor. 

On  Mr.  Gilfillan's  entrance  Mrs.  Normanshire  turned 
her  head.     Immediately  her  face  crimsoned. 

'  Oh  !  '  she  gasped. 

Melodies  unspeakable  and  unheard  were  thrilling 
the  soul  of  Barnacles.     He  pointed  at  the  piano. 

*  It  is  a  sea  of  light  and  beauty  ;  I  am  a  crass  man  ; 
I  am  unclean  and  halt  and  lame ' 


802  BARNACLES 

She  rose  with  burning  face. 

*  I  did  not  know  you  were  listening,'  she  said. 

To  Barnacles,  she  had  an  air  of  nobleness  that  was 
everlasting.     He  went  straight  up  to  her. 

*  I  was  listening — I  had  no  right  to  come  here.'  The 
words  poured  out  of  him.  *  I — I  wish  to  thank  you — 
I  shall  go  away  at  once  and — remember  always.'  He 
felt  in  her  presence  a  chUd  of  the  dust.  *  Forgive  me — 
I  am  only  a  clod  of  earth  ;  I  am  ashamed  ;  I  could  not 
help  myself — some  day  I  shall  try  to  thank  you.' 
He  broke  off  with  sobs  in  his  voice. 

For  a  moment  she  gazed  at  his  face,  and  then  turned 
with  quivering  lips,  and  went  straight  to  Mrs.  GilfiUan. 

Barnacles  stood  trembling.  His  face  was  almost 
ugly,  his  appearance  lank  and  ragged  ;  but  there  was 
in  him  an  indescribable  pathos,  an  unnameable  sim- 
plicity and  natural  dignity,  which  touched  the  heart 
of  Mrs.  GilfiUan. 

'  Won't  you  play  to  him  again  or  sing,  my  dear  ? 
he  's  in  raptures  over  it.' 

Unable  to  speak,  she  shook  her  head. 

The  banker  flicked  invisible  sweat  with  his  forefinger. 

*  Come  on,  Martha  !  I  haven't  heard  you  sing  for  an 
age.' 

She  looked  at  him  mutely,  beseechingly. 

*  I  never  hear  music  except  in  a  theatre ;  you  pay 
for  it  there ;  a  wee  lilt,  Martha.  Barnacles  says  it  is  a 
gift  from  you  to  us ;  isn't  that  so.  Barnacles  ?  ' 

Each  word  of  the  invitation  was  piercing  her  heart. 
She  looked  around  like  a  creature  ready  to  fly,  and  saw 
Barnacles.  He  was  trying  to  master  his  sobs.  She 
spread  out  her  hands,  rose,  and  walked  past  him, 
almost  touching  him. 


BARNACLES  808 

As  soon  as  she  sat  down  to  the  piano  the  banker  put 
his  hands  in  his  pockets,  sank  back  in  his  chair,  and 
closed  his  eyes. 

Suddenly  her  voice  broke  out  full  and  sweet  as  a 
flute: 

*  The  winds  from  the  West  bring  the  clouds  from  the  sea.' 

The  song  brought  back  all  his  wanderings,  his  home- 
lessness,  and  the  secret  pain  of  his  love  to  the  heart  of 
Barnacles.  The  music  of  her  voice  was  an  earnest  of 
a  magnificence  of  wealth  which  she  had — something 
unattainable  and  secure  from  the  sorrow  of  the  world  ; 
peace  and  hushed  security  ;  an  air  of  home.  It  burst 
into  passionate  longing  ;  swelled  with  beauty  ;  melted 
away  like  an  evening  fading  into  the  depths  of  night, 
and  came  back  from  the  odorous  darkness  laden  with 
incense  of  things  holy  and  mysterious.  The  sorrows 
that  have  no  end  sobbed  through  it.  The  air  of  the 
room  was  vibrating  with  angels'  wings.  The  head  of 
this  woman  was  the  white  throne  of  angels. 

Barnacles  was  suddenly  aware  of  a  silence.  The 
song  had  ceased.     He  stretched  out  his  hands. 

'  This  is  a  holy  place,'  he  cried ;  *  there  are  angels 
here — it  is  lofty  and  terrible ' 

As  he  spoke  he  advanced  towards  her  with  the  eyes 
of  a  man  in  a  trance.  She  stood  up  to  meet  him, 
making  a  gesture  with  her  hands  as  if  to  push  him 
back  ;  but  he  came  on  until  their  eyes  met  one  another's 
— soul  searching  for  soul. 

*  I  did  not  know  you  were  like  this,'  he  said,  with  a 
shaking  voice.  He  was  groping  for  her  hand.  *  I  feel 
as  if  you  were  calling  to  me.' 

Her  parted  lips,  her  face,  her  eyes  drank  in  his  words. 


804  BARNACLES 

Still  they  gazed,  each  viewing  what  is  imperishable  in 
the  eyes  of  the  other. 

'  Eh  !  Barnacles,  that  was  twenty-four  carat ;  your 
violin  could  not  do  that.' 

As  if  released  from  a  spell  ]\Irs.  Normanshire  took 
her  eyes  off  his  face  and  looked  across  the  room  as  if 
she  was  lost.  She  began  to  move  slowly  towards  Mrs. 
GilfiUan. 

*  I  think  I  wiU  go,'  she  said  in  a  faint  voice ;  *  I  do 
not  feel  well.' 

The  banker  jumped. 

She  smiled  wanly  and  held  out  her  hand  to  him. 

Mrs.  Gilfillan,  who  had  cast  a  swift  glance  at  her 
face,  took  her  by  the  arm.  *  Come  away,  dear,  you 
ought  not  to  sing  that  song.' 

'  Come  and  see  me,'  she  said  to  Barnacles  as  she 
bade  him  good-night ;  *  there  is  something  I  must  teU 
you.'  There  was  a  look  of  unspeakable  suffering  in 
her  face. 

Barnacles  was  walking  up  and  down,  his  emotion 
uncontrollable. 

*  I  am  sorry  ;  terribly  sorry,'  he  was  muttering  to 
himself.     *  I  am  not  worthy ' 

*  The  heat  of  the  room,'  said  the  banker ;  *  she  takes 
headaches.' 

Barnacles  was  moving  about  as  if  there  was  no  one 
in  the  room  but  himself.     His  eyelashes  were  wet.  .  .  . 

When  he  left  the  house  he  raised  his  eyes  to  the 
sky.  *  Pure  and  beautiful  stars  shine  upon  me,  for  I 
love  you,'  he  said ;  '  she  is  God's  angel  and  God  is 
kind  to  me.' 


BARNACLES  305 


XVIII 

She  was  sitting  on  the  seat  in  the  garden,  her  knees 
crossed,  her  right  arm  resting  on  the  seat  and  supporting 
her  head.  She  had  been  reading  when  the  twilight 
came,  and  the  book  lay  idly  on  her  lap.  Upon  its 
page  was  a  flower — one  of  the  roses  which  Barnacles 
had  sent  her. 

The  moonlight  was  falling  upon  her  and  she  was 
gazing  towards  the  moon,  watching  the  flight  of  a 
bird — a  strange  visitant  in  the  silent  heavens,  per- 
haps making  for  another  land.  All  was  still.  The 
shadows  of  the  trees  were  at  rest  on  the  white  earth  like 
fairy  children  asleep  in  an  ivory  nursery.  So  clear  was 
the  atmosphere  that  in  the  north  the  mountains  lifted 
their  dark  bulk  on  the  sky  like  islands  in  a  sea  of  white 
fire.  Around  their  peaks  the  heavens  were  marshalling 
the  armies  of  the  stars  ;  and  the  lights  in  the  Clyde 
valley  beneath  were  like  the  reflection  of  the  heavenly 
host.  The  mountains  standing  up  and  the  stars 
looking  down  seemed  to  hang  in  a  breathless  silence  in 
the  midst  of  the  stillness  of  the  night. 

As  she  gazed  mto  the  dim  spaces  beyond  the  moon 
towards  which  the  vagrant  bird  had  vanished,  on  her 
face  was  enshadowed  a  tracery  mingled  of  the  trees 
and  the  stars. 

As  Barnacles  continued  to  watch  she  began  crooning 
a  little  song.  It  was  like  the  echo  of  the  beating 
pinions  of  the  lost  bird.  Barnacles,  as  if  his  eyes  were 
directed  by  her,  also  looked  beyond  the  ghostly  moun- 
tains and  the  moon,  and  the  music  of  her  voice  feU 
upon  him — upon  his  heart,  upon  his  very  face  and 

u 


306  BARNACLES 

hands,  like  the  tears  of  a  cry  for  what  lay  beyond  the 
moon-mist  and  the  arch  of  the  night  and  the  ocean  of 
the  stars.  As  he  listened  and  gazed  in  rapture  in  the 
line  of  her  sight  he  saw  a  bridge  many-hued  spanning 
the  hollow  of  the  skies.  It  hung  airy  and  shimmering, 
swaying  to  the  rhythm  of  the  music.  Across  it  aU  in 
white  a  woman  was  walking.  She  was  going  to  Gades 
of  heart's  desire  on  the  rainbow  road.  As  she  stepped 
over  the  curve  of  the  translucent  path  and  was  going 
down  towards  the  moon,  she  turned  her  face  and  smiled 
at  him.  Then  she  went  down  the  pearly  road  into  the 
mists  of  the  moon  ;  and  the  heavens  were  empty  and 
a  rain  of  tears  was  falling  upon  him  in  soft  music.  .  .  . 

He  started  forward  with  a  cry  and  stretched  out  his 
arms.  '  Not  yet,  Martha,  not  yet ;  stay,  stay  a 
moment ;  there  is  no  other  joy  on  earth  ! ' 

Mrs.  Normanshire  heard  the  cry,  and  saw  his  hands 
stretched  out  to  her. 

She  could  not  rise  from  her  seat. 

*  My  God  !  how  forlorn,'  he  sobbed.  *  I  thought  you 
were  gone  away  for  ever.'  His  face  was  working 
convulsively. 

*  It  is  better  for  me  to  go  away — ^for  this  to  be  over,' 
she  said  faintly. 

'  Shall  I  not  come  any  more,  any  more  ? '  His  face  had 
a  dazed  expression. 

*  There  is  no  help  for  it — I  am '     She  could  not 

say  more. 

He  drew  a  deep  breath. 

*  I  shall  obey,'  he  said.  *  I  am  not  worthy  to  be  your 
guest ;  I  thank  you  for  having  permitted  me  to  come 
and  see  you.  I  shall  always  have  the  remembrance  of 
you  in  my  heart.    We  cannot  part  there.' 


BARNACLES  307 

He  spoke  as  one  taking  a  mournful  farewell.  Her 
face  was  in  her  hands.  He  gazed  from  her  hidden 
face  to  the  house. 

*  This  place  has  been  a  home.  I  did  not  think 
mortal  man  could  be  so  happy.' 

The  terrible  simplicity  of  these  words  was  more  fatal 
to  her  than  the  pleading  of  the  most  eloquent  tongues. 

'  Oh  !   stop,  stop  ! '  she  moaned. 

'  I  would  not  disturb  you  if  I  might  come.  I  would 
be  content  to  stand  outside  your  window  when  you  sing,' 

'  Stop,  stop  ;  you  don't  know  what  you  are  saying  ; 
it  hurts,  hurts  terribly.     I  have  no  peace.' 

He  was  down  on  his  knees,  sobbing. 

'  I  would  not  hurt  you — I  would  rather  put  my  hand 
in  the  fire.' 

*  It  is  not  the  pain — it  is  the  danger.'  Her  voice  was 
almost  inaudible. 

The  sight  of  the  agony  in  her  face  aroused  in  his  soul 
a  storm  of  yearning  to  protect  her,  he  knew  not  from 
what.    He  put  his  hands  about  her  feet. 

'  I  am  your  slave,'  he  groaned. 

She  was  almost  beaten. 

'  If  you  do  not  leave  me  now — ^for  ever — ^you  must 
take  me  away ' 

He  stood  up,  his  face  fuU  of  joy. 

*  Let  us  go,'  he  cried,  *  wherever  you  wish.  I  am 
ready.'     He  held  out  his  arms. 

Death  or  life  hung  on  her  next  word.  She  had  only 
to  stretch  out  her  hand  to  bridge  the  narrow  space 
between  them,  which  deep  as  heU  was  also  as  high  as 
heaven.  She  swayed  towards  him  like  a  wind-beaten 
lily,  and  for  the  first  time  looked  at  him.  His  eyea 
full  of  light  overwhelmed  her. 


808  BARNACLES 

*  0  wretched,  wretched  me ! '  she  burst  out,  *  my 

heart,  my  heart '  and  clutching  at  her  bosom  as  if 

a  fire  was  there  she  burst  into  tears. 

Again  he  was  on  his  knees. 

*  Why  are  you  crying  ?  '     His  voice  broke. 

*  Because — ^the  shame — ^I  cannot  go — ^it  would  break 
your  heart.'  Her  tears  were  dripping  fast.  He  held 
his  palms  to  them,  as  a  man  in  a  desert  perishing  of 
thirst  catches  the  rain.  He  was  gazing  at  her  as  if  she 
had  Just  died. 

*  I  will  give  my  life  for  you,'  he  cried. 
She  lay  as  if  petrified,  hardly  breathing. 

*  Don't,  don't ;  I  have  not  the  strength.' 
A  great  light  was  shining  on  his  face. 

'  I  shall  go  anywhere — I  wiQ  follow  you ' 

She  turned  her  face  away  from  him. 

*  I  am  married.'  These  words  came  from  her  like 
a  cry  of  despair. 

He  was  puzzled. 

*  Yes  ;  I  know.'  He  took  her  hand  and  pressed  it  to 
his  lips. 

*  He — is — ^alive.' 

As  she  spoke  she  turned  her  head  wearily  and  looked 
at  him  with  eyes  full  of  unutterable  agony.  She  was 
trying  to  smile  ;  but  her  lips  twitched,  as  if  she  were 
about  to  cry.  Barnacles  was  filled  with  pity  ;  she  was 
suffering  before  his  eyes ;  his  impotence  increased  her 
misery. 

*  Let  us  part,  Barnacles — there  is  no  peace  on  earth.' 

*  Is  it  because  he  is  alive  ?— am  I  doing  wrong  ? — 
am  I  harming  any  one  ? — I  shall  go  away — I  shall  do 
anything.' 

She  looked  at  him  wonderingly. 


BARNACLES  809 

'  Do  you  not  understand  ? '  she  whispered. 

Her  words,  and  the  yearning  in  her  eyes,  in  the  depths 
of  which  was  a  misty  light  he  had  never  seen  there 
before,  thrilled  his  being.  He  hung  upon  her  look, 
breathless. 

*  Is  it — ^Martha — that  1  '    He  could  scarcely  speak. 

*  0  God — do  you  not  see  ? — I  love  you ' 

There  was  something  terrible  in  the  despair  of  her 

voice  and  look  as  her  cry  melted  away  into  the  silence. 
The  moon  stood  still ;  the  stars  of  heaven  watched 
with  a  million  eyes  ;  those  two  gazed  dumbly  at  one 
another  with  a  look  deeper  than  words  can  reveal.  In 
that  gaze  they  lived  a  lifetime  of  agony  and  of  bliss. 

'  You  love  me — me ' — he  repeated  the  incredible 
words — *  you  that  are  noble  and  wonderful — my  soul 
cannot  endure  that.'  He  threw  up  his  hands.  *  O 
flower  of  heaven  !  let  me  walk  with  you  for  ever.' 

She  put  out  her  two  hands  like  a  blind  person  seek- 
ing to  push  away  a  menace. 

'  No,  no  !  it  would  be  sin — he  would  kill  you — ^he  is 
terrible.' 

A  wave  of  anger  swept  over  Barnacles. 

'  Where  is  he  ? '  His  blue  eyes  flashed.  *  I  wiU  go 
to  him — he  shall  not  live  to  make  you  afraid.' 

Dissolved  in  tears  she  clung  to  him  like  a  child. 

*  I  cannot  tell  you — he  made  my  life  a  living  death — 
he  would  murder  you.' 

*  My  heart's  blood  is  yours,'  he  burst  out  in  passionate 
tenderness  ;  *  your  fingers  on  me — ^they  make  me  your 
defence — I  only  ask  to  be  your  shield.' 

The  struggle  for  her  was  becoming  too  unequal. 
She  felt  she  must  yield,  and  lie  on  his  breast,  and  be 
sheltered  for  ever. 


310  BARNACLES 

*  Oh  !  pity  me  !  pity  me  !  Barnacles,'  she  moaned. 
*  I  want  you  ;  but  pity  me — my  heart  is  frail.  ' 

This  cry  opened  his  understanding  at  last.  They 
looked  at  each  other  in  speechless  misery,  in  tenderest 
despairing  love. 

*  This  is  death,'  he  whispered.  *  I  love  you  for  ever 
and  ever.' 

He  had  won  the  battle  for  her.  Her  being  was 
flooded  with  sorrow  for  him.  She  rose  with  a  face  like 
marble.     She  was  scarcely  able  to  stand. 

*  I  have  no  strength — say  good-bye ;  good-bye, 
Barnacles — good-bye.'  She  was  pouring  out  these 
blind  adieux  to  defend  herself  before  it  was  too  late. 

He  took  her  two  hands  in  his ;  they  were  like  ice. 

*  0  angel  heart,  farewell ! '  A  light  was  shining  on 
his  face.     '  You,  peerless  soul  that  love  me,  farewell.' 

So  they  stood,  their  hands  in  one  another's  ;  one 
heart  slowly  breaking ;  the  other  filled  with  the 
rapture  of  love  and  renunciation. 

It  was  the  woman  who  at  length  bowed  her  head, 
lower  and  lower  till  her  tears  and  her  kisses,  and  the 
despaiiing  sigh  of  a  heart  overwhelmed,  were  hot  on 
his  hand.  It  was  her  farewell,  the  final  offering  of  her 
love  exhausting  in  that  moment  aU  its  treasures  upon 
him  who  had  a  joy  which  the  world  could  not  take 
away,  and  who  sat  upon  an  eternal  throne. 


XIX 

*  Barnacles,  hae  ye  lost  your  granny  ? '  said  SkeUy. 
Barnacles  raised  his  head. 

*  I  am  leaving  Paisley  to-morrow,'  he  answered. 


BARNACLES  811 

'  Goin'  hame  ? ' 

*  No  ;  I  answered  the  advertisement  of  one  Jacobina 
for  an  amanuensis.     I  have  got  the  post.' 

'  A  whit  ?  ' 

'  Writing  things,'  answered  Barnacles  sadly. 

A  stone  was  on  his  heart. 

Skelly  looked  at  him  keenly. 

*  Hoo  's  a'  up  by — in  Castleheid  ?  ' 

*  I  cannot  tell  you  now — some  other  time,  my  good 
friend.' 

*  Ay !  ay !  things  maun  be  some  wy,'  and  SkeUy 
sighed  deeply  for  his  friend's  misfortune.  Since  the 
heavenly  visitant  had  appeared  in  his  house  Skelly 
doubted  of  Barnacles'  success.  Few  words  passed 
between  them.  The  little  black  bag  was  packed  and 
Barnacles  stepped  to  the  bed-side. 

*  Are  you  feeling  better  ?  '  he  asked  the  seaman, 
who  looked  more  than  usual  shrunken. 

'  Ay,'  quavered  the  old  man ;  '  this  is  a  braw  hame. 
I  'm  no'  feeUn'  the  caul'.  I  feel  there  is  a  God — ^no'  the 
wy  I  used  to  feel  in  a  gale — in  another  wy  ;  my  he'rt  's 
lifted  up.    Am  I  no'  weel  happit  here  ?  ' 

Barnacles  bent  down. 

'  I  'm  going  away.' 

The  old  man's  face  became  alarmed. 

'  Whaur  are  ye  bound  for  ?  ' 

*  I  'm  going  up  to  the  Highlands  ;  I  've  got  work 
there.' 

The  old  man  sighed  deeply. 

*  Man,  Barnacles,  aince  ye  lift  anchor,  God  only  kens 
whaur  ye  '11  let  it  go  again.'  He  turned  round  on  the 
bed,  put  out  a  wasted  hand  on  Barnacles'  sleeve,  and 
whispered  in  a  low  voice,  *  If  ye  meet  a  man  on  your 


812  BARNACLES 

traivels  weirin'  a  pilot  reefer  like  mine,  will  j'^e  let  me 
ken?' 

*  I  wUl,'  said  Barnacles. 

*  God  bless  ye,'  ejaculated  the  old  man  fervently,  and 
as  they  shook  hands,  '  I  hope  ye  '11  mand  the  port  an' 
get  good  holding  ground.' 

Barnacles  turned  away  with  misty  eyes. 

*  Kitchener,'  he  said,  '  I  've  written  a  lady's  name 
and  address  on  a  piece  of  paper  and  put  it  inside  the 
clock  ;  if  you  need  any  help  at  any  time  you  are  to  go 
to  this  lady.     She  lives  in  Castlehead.' 

'  Are  ye  gaun  awa.  Barnacles  ?  ' 

*  Yes,  Kitchener.' 

*  Whaur  to  ?  ' 

*  Away  up  to  the  Highlands.' 

*  Whatna  place  is  that  ?  ' 

*  It 's  where  the  sun  rises  out  of  the  big  sea  in  the 
morning  and  crosses  over  the  mountains  and  the 
heather  all  day.' 

The  boy  turned  his  glowing  face  to  the  window 
and  gazed  out  on  the  dingy  street.  He  rubbed  one 
bare  foot  against  the  calf  of  his  other  leg. 

*  And  rabbits  ?  '  he  asked,  finger  in  mouth. 
'  Yes,  Kitchener.' 

*  An'  wee  boats  in  the  bums  tryin'  races  ?  * 

*  Wee  boats  too.  Kitchener.' 

*  Am  I  gaun  wi'  ye.  Barnacles  ?  * 

And  Barnacles  saw  he  had  made  a  mistake  in 
exploiting  the  treasures  of  the  land. 

*  No  ;  you  must  wait  with  your  grandfather.' 

*  He  's  his  pension  an'  his  jaicket.' 

*  You  must  go  to  school.' 
A  silence. 


BARNACLES  818 

'  Wull  ye  be  back  the  mom's  nicht  ?  * 

*  No  ;  but  some  time,  Kitchener.' 

Wee  Kitchener  was  perilously  near  to  tears. 

*  Ye  're  gaun  to  leave  me  ?  ' 

There  was  a  world  of  despair  in  the  tone,  which 
lacerated  the  heart  of  Barnacles. 

'  Kitchener,'  he  said,  putting  his  hand  on  the  boy's 
thin  shoulders,  '  you  're  to  be  a  wee  man.  It 's  as 
bad  for  me  going  away.' 

*  Whit  wy  are  ye  gaun,  then  ?  ' 

And  Barnacles  was  speechless  for  a  minute. 

*  I  'm  going  for  work.  Kitchener,'  he  said  at  last. 
And  Kitchener  broke  into  a  storm  of  sobs. 

*  I  hate  awa — up — in — ^the — Hielans ;  dinna  go — 
dinna  leave  me.' 

Tears  were  streaming  on  the  face  of  Barnacles  as  he 
ran  out  of  the  house. 

But  there  are  no  tears  so  fuU  and  so  salt  as  the  tears 
of  the  young,  for  they  think  that  men  have  the  power 
of  the  keys  and  can  help  them  if  they  will. 

Barnacles'  heart  was  burning  with  rage  against  the 
unknown  Mr.  Ganson  Normanshire.  It  was  his  in- 
fluence working  with  the  strange  ramifications  of  evil 
that  had  made  the  boy  to  weep. 

Extreme  loneliness  surrounded  the  boy.  The  whole 
world  was  going  away.  He  felt  himself  smaU  and  lost. 
The  sight  of  the  street  was  one  big  ache.  The  light 
had  gone  out  in  Paradise.  Rather  Paradise  was  where 
Barnacles  had  gone  beside  the  sea,  the  wee  boats,  and 
the  rabbits. 

Stifling  his  last  sobs  he  picked  up  his  cap  and  crept 
out.  Choking  down  the  last  tears  in  his  dry  throat  he 
re-ached  the  street.  At  the  far  end  of  it  he  saw  Barnacles 


314  BARNACLES 

and  his  father.  Barnacles  was  carrying  the  fiddle-box 
and  his  father  a  black  bag.  Snuffling,  wiping  his  eyes, 
and  his  heart  hammering  on  his  ribs,  wee  Kitchener 
followed  afar  off — through  the  Square  ;  turning  and 
twisting  tiU  the  houses  became  high  and  dark  and 
strange.  Fear  mastered  affection.  He  came  to  a  halt 
and  stood  staring.  Along  the  Renfrew  road  he 
watched  the  two  men  go  ;  soon  they  were  figures  ; 
soon  wee  Kitchener  could  not  recognise  the  beloved 
form  any  more — further  off  they  went,  blurred,  growing 
smaller  and  smaller. 

Wee  Kitchener  stood  with  his  knuckles  in  his  eyes, 
trying  to  suppress  a  storm  of  sobs.  .  .  . 

The  old  man  was  alone  with  his  broken  heart.  For 
three  days  he  had  concealed  the  loss  of  the  beloved 
jacket.  Sometimes  his  mind  wandered,  and  he  talked 
with  old  shipmates  whom  he  accused  of  stealing  the 
garment. 

On  the  second  day  in  which  he  was  in  bed  he  said 
to  SkeUy : 

*  Hoo  was  tred  the  day  ?  ' 

*  I  think  ye  're  gettin'  doited,  faither,'  answered  his 
son. 

'  I  doot  I  am ' — he  passed  his  hand  across  his  brow 
— '  but  did  ye  no'  seU  ony  f  ush  the  day  ?  ' 

*  I  'm  no'  hawkin'  noo,  faither.' 

The  old  man  trembled  at  what  he  was  going  to 
say. 

*  I  ken,  I  ken  ;  I  was  only  jokin',  thinkin'  maybe  if 
ye  were  traiveUin'  wi'  the  powny  ye  micht  run  across 
a  man  weirin'  a  pilot  reefer  jaicket  wi'  brass  buttons.' 

'  Ay  !  faither  ;  Paisley 's  choke-fou  o'  men  oot  o' 
the  Navy  ;  the  High  Street 's  burstin'  wi'  brass  buttons. 


BARNACLES  815 

Ye  ought  to  put  your  ain  on  an'  gae  oot  amang  them. 
It  wad  dae  ye  mair  good  nor  doctor's  bottles.' 

'  I  wadna  daur,  Skelly  ;  they  'd  only  mak  a  mock  o' 
me,  an'  ax  me  whaur  I  stealt  it ;  me  a  done  auld  man 
to  be  rigged  up  like  a  skipper.  No — no,  I  '11  just  keep 
the  jaicket  in  the  kist.' 

'  A'  richt,  faither ;  it  '11  dae  there  brawly  till  ye 
get  better.' 

The  old  man  sighed. 

*  If  ye  ever  see  onybody  in  Paisley  weirin'  ane  wiU 
ye  let  me  ken,  Skelly  ?  ' 

*  Hoots,  faither,  you  an'  your  brass  buttons  ;  dinna 
fash  your  held  wi'  them.' 

SkeUy  was  surely  angry.  The  old  man  spoke  no 
more  to  his  son  about  the  vanished  jacket.  He  ate 
out  his  heart  in  silence. 

Barnacles'  departure  was  the  final  blow.  He  was 
alone  now,  and  his  head  was  on  fire.  He  babbled  of 
ships  ;  he  cried  for  his  mother,  whom  he  told  concern- 
ing the  jacket. 

When  wee  Kitchener  after  many  wanderings  reached 
home  he  was  ignorant  that  his  grandfather  was  dying. 
The  delirium  was  passing  away,  and  the  old  man  lay 
prostrate  with  weakness,  unable  to  speak,  and  scarcely 
breathing. 

He  grew  a  little  stronger  towards  the  afternoon,  and 
frequently  asked  for  cold  water,  complaining  of  a  burn- 
ing in  his  body.  His  eyes,  which  were  grown  very  big, 
seemed  to  have  devoured  his  sunken  cheeks.  His 
thirst  became  intolerable. 

'  Ye  're  awfu'  thirsty,  grandfaither.* 

Wee  Kitchener  handed  him  the  bowl  and  stood 
beside  the  bed. 


316  BARNACLES 

*  Ay  !  I  could  drink  the  hale  Pacific.  I  'm  no  weel, 
Kitchener/  he  panted ;  '  no'  weel.' 

The  water  spilled  down  the  white  beard  on  to 
the  bed-clothes.  *  Can  ye  say  the  Lord's  Prayer, 
Kitchener  ?    Dae  they  teach  ye  in  the  school  ? ' 

*  Ay,  grandfaither.' 

'  Say  't,  then  ;  I  'm  no'  feelin'  very  weel.' 
The  boy  began  to  repeat  the  Lord's  Prayer. 

*  Wur  father  which  arch  in  heaven,  hallood  be  Thy 
Name  ;   Thy  kingdom  come ' 

Suddenly  the  old  man  cried  in  a  loud  voice  : 

'  Port-watch,  square  the  yards  ;  let  go  the  anchor !  ' 

The  boy  ceased.  The  tireless  fingers  on  the  coverlet 
were  still.  The  words  of  command  heard  by  no 
earthly  crew  struck  on  the  ears  of  the  Ancient  Captain, 
who  came  and  commanded  that  the  anchor  be  lifted 
instead,  and  the  last  voyage  of  the  wanderer  be  made 
into  the  immortal  sea. 

Wee  Kitchener  was  looking  at  his  grandfather, 
expecting  him  to  speak  again  ;  but  he  was  strangely 
quiet. 

'  Wull  I  say 't,  grandfaither  ? — "  Wur  faither  which 
arch  in  heaven."  '  Again  he  waited,  but  there  was  no 
answer. 

Wee  Kitchener  became  afraid  of  the  grey  face,  and 
stole  away,  leaving  the  empty  bowl  lying  careened  on 
the  breast  of  the  still  form. 

He  met  blin'  Ned  in  the  close. 

Since  his  misadventure  blin'  Ned  lived  in  a  state  of 
constant  dread,  fearing  both  the  police  and  his  old 
companion.    So  when  wee  Kitchener  said  : 

*  Wull  ye  come  an'  see  grandfaither  ?  '  he  asked 
suspiciously,  '  What 's  he  wantin'  ?  ' 


BARNACLES  817 

*  He  wis  wantin'  the  Lord's  Prayer  ;  but  he  '11  no' 
wauken.' 

*  Is  he  no'  weel  ? ' 

'  He  's  awfu'  thirsty  ;  he  drank  three  hale  bow's  fou 
o'  watter.' 

Blin'  Ned,  with  the  curiosity  of  a  crimirial,  had  often 
wished  to  speak  to  the  seaman  again,  in  order  to  learn 
if  he  suspected  in  what  way  the  jacket  had  disappeared. 
He  followed  the  boy  up  the  stair,  and  came  into  the 
room,  feeling  with  his  stick  to  the  bed.  He  remem- 
bered the  last  time  he  had  touched  this  bed,  and  his 
conscience  rebuked  him. 

'  Hector,  are  ye  no'  feelin'  weel  ?  ' 

There  was  no  answer. 

The  blind  man  put  out  his  hand.  It  touched  a 
face. 

'  Hector ' — his  voice  trembled — *  it 's  me,  Ned  ' — 
silence — '  Do  you  mind  when  the  Dutchman  fell  off 
the  top  gallants  at  the  Horn,  as  wat  a  night  as  ever 
feU  ?     Tell  me  again.  Hector.' 

The  blind  man  waited  one  moment,  two. 

Then  he  leaned  forward  and  whispered  : 

*  Wauken,  man ;  I  ken  whaur  your  jaicket  is  wi' 
the  braw  buttons.' 

The  blind  man  hung  for  a  minute  over  the  bed,  hold- 
ing his  breath.  Then  he  turned  to  wee  Kitchener 
and  said,  *  Your  grandfaither  an'  me  'iU  no'  foregaither 
at  the  close-mooth  ony  mair.' 

*  WuU  ye  no',  Ned  ?  ' 

*  Your  grandfaither  canna  see  ony  mair  nor  blin' 
Ned  noo.' 

*  Whit 's  wrang  wi'  him  ?  ' 

*  He  's  deid,  like  my  mither.' 


318  BARNACLES 

Wee  Kitchener  held  up  his  white  face  full  of  awe  to 
the  blind  man. 

*  Is  that  the  wy  grandfaither  'ill  no'  wauken  ?  ' 

*  Your  grandfaither  'ill  no'  wauken  ony  mair,  or 
speak  to  ye  ony  mair.  He  's  awa  to  the  Happy 
Land.' 

Wee  Kitchener  began  to  cry. 
'  Whaur  's  your  faither  ?  ' 

*  He  's  awa — up  to — the  Hielans — wi' — Barnacles.' 
The  sUence  of  the  death-chamber  settled  down  on 

the  room,  broken  only  by  the  sobbing  of  the  boy : 
'  They  've  ta'en  awa — the  fiddle — whit  wy  is  every  one 
— gaun  awa — an' — an'  leavin' — me  ?  ' 

*  Did  your  grandfaither  complean  o'  lossin'  his 
jaicket  ?  ' 

'  Ay !  he  was  aye  talkin'  aboot  it '    The  sobs  were 

fewer  and  deeper.    '  Whaur  is  the  Happy  Land  ?  ' 

*  It 's  whaur  blin'  Ned  'ill  see  an'  your  grandfaither  'ill 
hae  a  braw  new  jaicket.' 

*  An  wee  boats  in  the  bum,  an'  rabbits  ? '  asked  the 
boy. 

*  No,  nor  boats,  nor  rabbits;  are  ye  daft.  Kitchener  ? ' 
Kitchener  began  to  sob  afresh.  His  grief  roused  the 
blind  man  to  the  necessity  of  the  moment. 

*  Dinna  teU  the  poliss,'  he  said ;  '  they  "11  maybe  say 
we  kUled  your  grandfaither.' 

*No!  I'llno'teU.' 

*  We  'U  tell  the  undertaker  doon  in  the  close.  He  '11 
put  your  grandfaither  in  a  cofl&n  an'  bury  him.' 

*  Like  tho  powny  ?  ' 

*  Ay  !  like  the  powny.' 

This  frightened  wee  Kitchener,  for  the  pony  had 
never  come  back.     He  mistrusted  the  undertaker. 


BARNACLES  319 

'  I  'd  raither  tell  the  wife  that  gied  me  the  new  pair  o' 
buits  an'  the  new  suit.' 

'  Whatna  wife  is  that  ?  ' 

'  I  don't  ken  her  name.  It 's  on  a  paper  Barnacles 
gied  me.     I  'd  rather  go  to  her  as  to  the  midertaker.' 

*  An'  whaur  's  the  paper  ?  ' 

*  It 's  inside  the  nock.' 

And  thus  wee  Kitchener  came  also  to  Castlehead, 
taken  to  Mrs.  Normanshire's  door  by  a  message-boy, 
and  to  Mrs.  Normanshire  by  a  red-headed  woman. 
He  stood  in  the  midst  of  the  floor,  bare-footed,  cap  in 
hand,  and  said  : 

'  I  'm  the  wee  boy  ye  gied  the  buits  tae  ;  Barnacles 
telt  me  to  come  ;  he  's  awa  up  to  the  Hielans  wi'  my 
faither  ;  an'  blin'  Ned  telt  me  my  grandfaither's  awa 
to  the  Happy  Land.' 

For  the  first  time  in  his  life  wee  Kitchener  was 
gathered  to  a  woman's  breast.  .  .  . 

Skelly  walked  down  to  the  edge  of  the  Clyde  at 
Renfrew  ferry  along  with  Barnacles.  They  stood  in 
silence  watching  the  ferry-boat  cross  that  was  to  carry 
Barnacles  over  the  river  on  the  beginning  of  his  tramp 
through  Dumbarton  to  Arrochar  and  into  Argyll. 

The  chain  of  the  boat  creaked  and  groaned  with  the 
strain  ;  the  tawny  Clyde  lapped  at  their  feet  from  the 
surge  of  a  passing  liner.  Barnacles'  lips  were  quivering 
as  he  held  out  his  hand. 

*  I  will  come  back  as  soon  as  I  can,'  he  said.  '  Paisley 
is  in  my  heart.' 

*  May  ye  never  be  nae  waur  nor  I  wish  ye,'  answered 
Skelly  in  his  gruff  voice,  and  wringing  Barnacles'  hand 
he  turned  and  walked  swiftly  up  the  slip  ;  nor  never 
once  looked  back. 


820  BARNACLES 

It  was  a  long  walk  to  Paisley,  but  Skelly  all  the  way 
hardly  slackened  his  step.  In  this  way  he  fought 
down  his  emotion. 

When  he  reached  his  home  he  found  a  red-haired 
woman  on  her  knees  in  prayer  and  blin'  Ned  standing, 
cap  in  hand,  in  the  midst  of  the  floor. 

Skelly  looked  round  about  for  his  son.  His "  eye 
feU  on  the  grey  face  on  the  pillow. 


XX 

Patrick  Normanshire  and  Barnacles  met  in  a  hay- 
shed  during  a  thunderstorm  on  the  shores  of  Loch  Fyne 
and  slept  together.  When  Patrick  awoke  in  the 
morning  he  found  his  companion  already  up.  Barnacles* 
jacket  was  almost  splitting  across  his  shoulders. 

'  We  'd  better  change,'  he  said. 

*  Change  what  ?  '  asked  Barnacles,  on  whose 
shoulders  a  jacket  was  hanging  as  limply  as  if  it  hung 
on  a  line. 

*  Our  locality,'  and  Patrick  burst  out  laughing. 

*  Yes !  let  us  move  on  in  God's  name,  for  I  am 
hungry.     Hunger  is  like  rust.    It  eats.' 

'  Where  are  you  going  to  get  your  breakfast  ?  '  asked 
Patrick. 

'  I  'm  going  to  play  my  violin  in  the  streets  of  the 
first  town.' 

*  That  is  Inveraray,  across  the  Loch  ;  but  we  '11  have 
to  swim  or  walk  roimd ;  I  've  got  no  money  for  the 
ferry.' 

'  I  have  a  shilling  left,'  said  Barnacles,  and  began 
searching  the  pockets  of  the  clothes  he  wore. 


BARNACLES  821 

*  You  won't  find  a  shilling  there,'  Patrick  was 
laughing  again,  '  you  've  got  on  my  clothes.' 

*  That  is  why  I  could  not  find  my  specs.  You 
will  find  the  case  in  the  inside  pocket  of  the 
jacket.' 

Barnacles  received  his  spectacles  and  they  took  the 
road  to  the  ferry. 

'  Look  here !  you  may  get  landed  in  jail  in  Inveraray.* 

*  What  for  ?  ' 

*  Playing  in  the  streets  ;   for  being  a  vagrant.' 

*  Nonsense,'  said  Barnacles  ;  '  I  've  played  in  the 
streets  of  Paisley.' 

*  Anyhow,  you  must  come  from  somewhere  and  be 
going  somewhere.     Wandering  men  are  arrested.' 

'  I  'm  going  to  Brieston,'  said  Barnacles. 
Patrick  stopped  dead  on  the  road. 

*  Are  you  ?   so  am  I.' 

*  Let  us  go  together,'  answered  Barnacles;  'my  name 
is  Barnacles.' 

'  Barnacles  !  Yes  ;  so  you  said  last  night ;  and 
mine  is  Patrick.' 

'  1  know  another  Irishman  ;  a  cobbler  ;  he  taught 
me  to  play  the  violin.' 

*  Confound  you,  I  'm  not  an  Irishman  ;  I  'm  from 
Argyll — here.' 

Patrick  stamped  on  Argyllshire. 

*  Are  you  going  home,  then  1  '  ^ 

*  Yes  ;  I  am.' 

'  I  am  leaving  home,'  answered  Barnacles. 

Silence  fell  between  them.  Each  was  busy  with  his 
own  thoughts. 

At  high  noon  Barnacles  unshipped  his  violin  in 
Inveraray,  and  the  first  copper  was  got  in  a  side  street 

X 


822  BARNACLES 

near  the  Cross,  from  an  old  bent  man  who  wore  a  round 
bonnet,  and  sea-boots  beneath  his  trousers. 

They  got  more  money  ;  they  got  bread  and  butter, 
herring  and  cheese. 

*  The  world  is  full  of  kindly  hearts,'  said  Barnacles, 
looking  over  the  edge  of  his  violin, 

*  In  memory  of  a  policeman,  I  'm  going  to  sing,' 
answered  Patrick  ;  and  his  beautiful  tenor  voice  went 
soaring  on  the  still  air. 

*  The  winds  of  the  West  bring  the  clouds  from  the  sea. 
My  passion  as  restless  breeds  nothing  but  fears ; 
The  night  brings  the  stars  to  the  breast  of  the  sky, 
My  love  is  all  barren  with  heartache  and  tears.' 

Barnacles  had  taken  the  violin  from  his  chin,  and 
stood  gazing  at  the  singer  as  if  he  had  suddenly 
appeared  beside  him  from  the  skies.     - 

'  Where  did  you  learn  that  song  ?  '  he  asked. 

A  woman  flung  open  a  window.  A  penny  fell  and 
rolled  near  their  feet.  A  shudder  went  through  the 
body  of  the  singer. 

*  My  God ! '  he  said  fiercely,  *  what  am  I  doing  singing 
that  song  in  the  streets  of  Inveraray  ?  '  He  gripped  his 
companion  by  the  arm,  '  Let  us  go  away  from  here  ; 
there  are  people  at  those  windows  looking  at  me.' 

The  waif  and  the  wren  left  the  street. 

A  child  darted  from  a  door  and  picked  up  the  penny. 


XXI 

They  walked  on  all  that  day  towards  a  wall  of  blue 
jagged  mountain  that  marched  down  to  the  sea,  and 
at  full  dusk,  when  birds  become  silent,  they  halted  for 


BARNACLES  328 

the  night  in  the  lee  of  a  wood  beside  a  little  bum 
above  the  sea. 

'  How  superbly  He  does  it,'  said  Barnacles. 

'Who.' 

*  The  lighter  of  the  stars.    Hark  !  * 

The  immemorial  silence  was  around  them.  Patrick's 
eyes  followed  the  blue  smoke  of  his  pipe  upwards. 

*  What  an  ocean  !  '  said  Barnacles,  '  up  there  ;  it 
declares  the  glory  of  God.' 

And  taking  up  his  violin  he  began  to  play  softly. 
Tune  after  tune  slipped  into  the  air,  till  a  melody 
pregnant  with  fate  for  these  two  cried  from  the  fiddle 
to  the  crooning  sea  : 

'  The  winds  of  the  West  bring  the  clouds  from  the  sea.' 

Patrick,  who  had  been  silent  nearly  all  day  since 
they  left  Inveraray,  was  startled  out  of  his  brooding, 
and  gazed  at  the  face  of  the  player. 

'  Where  did  you  learn  that  air  ? '  he  asked,  when  the 
tune  was  finished. 

'  Is  it  not  exquisite,'  answered  Barnacles,  '  here  in 
the  open  ? ' 

'  Where  did  you  hear  it  ?  ' 

Ah  !  if  only  they  knew  how  much  depended  on  the 
answer ! 

The  strained  voice  of  the  man  at  his  side  caused 
Barnacles  to  scan  the  white  face  that  leaned  towards 
him.     Its  dark  eyes  were  glittering. 

'  I  learned  it  from  one  who  is  all-precious  to 
me.' 

*  Go  on  ;  her  name  ?  ' 

*  Martha  Normanshire.' 

A   weight   of    impenetrable   silence   fell   from    the 


824  BARNACLES 

heavens  upon  them.  In  the  dark  hills,  on  the  gloom 
of  the  sea,  every  sound  was  hushed. 

Patrick's  face  was  livid.  He  was  staring  at  his 
companion,  who  was  now  lying  with  his  hands  beneath 
his  head  gazing  up  into  the  sky,  the  violin  across  his 
breast,  and  his  face  full  of  joy. 

Jealousy  seized  the  starved  soul  of  Patrick.  This 
lantern-jawed  fool  was  living  in  some  happy  memory. 
He  gazed  fascinated  at  the  dreamer's  happy  face, 
greedily  devouring  it  as  if  something  of  Martha  was 
there.     His  heart  went  on  fire. 

'  You  sang  that  song  to-day  in  Inveraray,'  Barnacles 
said  unexpectedly.     He  was  stiU  smiling  at  the  sky. 

'  Is  it  any  monopoly  of  yours  ?  '  Patrick  put  all  the 
weight  of  his  hatred  into  these  words,  as  if  he  was 
driving  home  a  dagger. 

'  No,'  answered  Barnacles  moumfuUy ;  '  I  only 
wondered  where  you  had  heard  it.' 

*  From  her  ;  from  her,'  burst  out  Patrick  ;  '  by  God, 
you  were  smiling  ! ' 

Barnacles  stretched  out  his  hand  and  touched  him. 
'  You  are  suffering,'  he  said. 

Patrick  shook  off  the  hand  with  a  feeling  of  loathing. 
'  Am  I  ?     What  are  you  questioning  me  about  ?  ' 

*  Do  you  love  her  too  ? '  said  Barnacles,  in  a  tender  voice. 
His  words  maddened  Patrick. 

*  Away,  you  and  your  cursed  smile ! — I  never  want 
to  see  you  again.' 

Barnacles  once  more  stretched  out  his  hand. 
'  Brother  !  '  he  said. 

There  was  such  a  look  of  yearning  in  the  blue  eyes 
that  it  drove  Patrick  to  frenzy. 

*  Damn  you,  baby  face !  what  are  you  looking  at  me 


BARNACLES  325 

like  that  for  ?  What  do  you  know  of  her  ? '  he  jumped 
to  his  feet  and  swung  his  arm.  Barnacles  attempted 
no  defence.  He  sat  motionless,  his  head  bowed.  But 
the  fist  did  not  descend.  The  hand  fell  on  the  speaker's 
breast,  and  began  clawing  there,  as  if  it  would  tear  out 
the  heart. 

*  I  knew  her,'  he  said  fiercely  ;  *  she  was  tender  and 
gentle.  When  she  was  in  the  room — in  a  white  dress, 
a  moonstone  at  her  breast,  pure  as  herself — she  would 
turn  round  her  head  at  the  piano  and  smile — for  me, 
do  you  hear — smile  for  me  ;  we  understood  each  other 
— what  do  you  know  ? '  He  made  a  threatening  gesture 
over  the  bent  figure,  and  walked  hurriedly  away. 

Barnacles  did  not  raise  his  head  or  make  any  move- 
ment. 

After  a  long  time  he  came  crashing  out  of  the  wood, 
and  a  good  way  off  stopped  and  watched  the  dim  form 
of  Barnacles  ;  then  he  walked  up  softly,  as  if  afraid  of 
disturbing  him. 

Barnacles  was  lying  with  his  face  to  the  stars  as 
if  he  were  dead.  Patrick  stood  over  him,  his  eyes 
glittering  down,  though  they  were  in  a  fixed  stare. 
His  chest  was  rising  and  falling  with  a  slow  deep  move- 
ment like  the  waves  of  the  sea  after  a  gale. 

'  Did  you  ever  kiss  each  other  ? '  His  voice  had  the 
hissing  sound  of  his  brother's. 

•No.' 

'  Did  you  take  her  in  your  arms  ? ' 

•No.' 

*  What  have  you  got  of  hers,  then,  that  you  smiled  ?  * 

*  Everything.' 

The  face  brooding  over  Barnacles  filled  with  black 
blood.     It  was  singularly  like  the  artist's. 


826-  BARNACLES 

*  Everything  ;   what  is  everything  ?  ' 

*  Love,'  answered  Barnacles. 

*  Did  you  touch  her  person  ?  ' 

*  Yes  ;   her  hand.' 

Patrick's  body  collapsed  on  the  heather.  Barnacles 
turned  upon  him  eyes  full  of  pity. 

*  Your  heart  is  bleeding,  my  brother.' 

Patrick  rolled  over  and  buried  his  face  in  the  heather, 
and  lay  perfectly  stiU. 

Barnacles  touched  him  on  the  shoulder. 
'  Patrick.' 
No  answer. 
'  Patrick.' 

*  What  do  you  want  ?  '  in  a  choked  voice. 

*  I  suffer  too.' 

*  Is  it  eating  the  heart  out  of  you  ?  ' 

*  It  can  never  do  that ;  love  is  greater  than  pain, 
and  stronger  than  misery.' 

And  the  madness  of  Patrick's  jealousy  was  gone. 
He  knew  he  had  wronged  this  man.  He  lifted  a 
haggard  face. 

*  I  wanted  to  murder  you  ;  I  fought  it  down  in  the 
wood,'  he  said. 

There  was  no  answer. 

Barnacles'  face  was  no  longer  turned  to  the  skies, 
but  lay  sidewise  on  the  heather,  pale  as  snow. 
Patrick  sprang  to  him. 

*  Are  you  going  to  faint  ?  '  he  cried. 

A  smile  was  struggling  on  Barnacles'  face. 

*  Some  water — please,'  he  gasped. 

The  bum  was  close  at  hand.  Patrick  burst  through 
its  fringe  of  rowan  and  birch  and  filled  his  cap. 

Barnacles'  eyes  were  closed.     He  looked  as  if  he 


BARNACLES  827 

were  dead.  Patrick,  choking  with  fear,  kneeled  beside 
him  and  bathed  his  temples  and  moistened  his  lips, 
allowing  the  water  to  trickle  between  them.  Sigh 
after  sigh  came  from  Barnacles'  breast  like  weary 
birds  escaping  from  a  cage — deep  rending  sighs  ;  and 
the  eyelids  fluttered  like  the  wings  of  a  wounded 
butterfly. 

*  Are  you  feeling  better  ?  ' 

*  Don't  be  alarmed,  it 's  passing  away  ;  I  'm  not 
hardened  to  tramping — ^want  of  food.' 

Presently  he  gave  another  deep  sigh  and  said, 
*  Poor  old  man,  is  this  how  you  felt  ?  I  haven't  been 
compassionate  enough.' 

*  What  are  you  talking  about  ?  '  asked  Patrick 
anxiously. 

*  An  old  gentleman  I  know  in  Paisley ;  he  takes 
faints.' 

Patrick  pondered  his  face. 

*  You  have  been  speaking  all  day  of  Paisley ;  did 
you  live  there  ?  ' 

*  Yes.' 

*  Was  it  there  you  met  her  ? '  he  asked  in  a  low 
voice. 

*  Yes.' 

Patrick's  face  was  bewildered.    . 

*  Do  they  live  there  now  ? '  His  voice  broke  on  a  note 
of  anxiety. 

'  Only  her.' 

Barnacles'  companion  had  been  sitting  quietly 
plucking  the  heather.  As  soon  as  Barnacles  spoke,  he 
lifted  his  head  swiftly,  and  a  light  leapt  into  his  eyes 
revivifying  his  face.  He  leaned  towards  Barnacles 
till  their  faces  nearly  touched. 


328  BARNACLES 

*  Is  he  dead  ?  '  he  asked  eagerly. 

*  No  ;   she  has  left  him.' 

The  face  came  nearer,  slowly,  more  in  front  of  him 
and  above  him,  as  if  some  mysterious  power  in  Barnacles 
were  drawing  it.  Barnacles  saw  above  him  teeth 
bared  to  the  gums,  and  a  face  white  and  savage  in  the 
moonlight ;  and  into  his  ear  dropped  like  molten  lead 
the  one  word — 

*  Divorced.' 

A  shudder  ran  through  Barnacles.  He  shrank  back 
from  the  face  breathing  fire  upon  him. 

*  Not  that,'  he  said ;  '  she  left  him.  She  said  he 
would  murder  me.  Don't  let  us  talk  of  it.'  He  covered 
his  face  with  his  hands  as  he  heard  the  horrible  grinding 
of  his  companion's  teeth. 

*  Tell  me,'  Barnacles'  hand  was  gripped  by  the  wrist, 
*  one  thing  more.     Where  in  Paisley  is  she  ?  ' 

'  Castlehead,'  answered  Barnacles,  who  pulled  his 
hand  away,  and  roUed  over  and  covered  his  head  with 
his  arms. 

These  were  the  last  words  they  ever  spoke  to  one 
another. 

Barnacles  heard  his  companion  get  up  and  go  away 
towards  the  sea.  Hour  after  hour  passed.  At  last 
he  returned,  creeping  silently  to  Barnacles'  side.  He 
got  down  on  his  knees  and  gazed  at  the  weary  face  of 
the  sleeping  man,  and  the  tear-stained  cheeks.  .  .  . 

Barnacles  dreamt  that  he  was  cast,  bound  hand  and 
foot,  into  a  sea  of  fire  among  the  heather,  which  burned 
from  horizon  to  horizon.  He  leapt  to  his  feet  trembling, 
and  found  that  the  dawn  was  abroad.  Bracken  was 
clinging  to  his  clothes  ;  at  his  feet  was  a  pile  of  bracken. 
He  had  been  covered  with  it  during  the  night. 


BARNACLES  329 

*  God  bless  the  man  who  did  it,'  he  said,  looking  up 
to  the  sky. 

Barnacles  walked  on  near  the  mountains  beside  the 
sea — alone. 

The  sea  was  intensely  bright.  The  cry  of  sea-fowl 
was  carried  among  the  rocks.  The  wind  blew  the 
crows  about  the  sky,  and  crackled  in  the  heather.  The 
mists  whirled  upward  as  though  in  flight  with  fear.  .  .  . 

It  was  night  when  Barnacles  stood  high  over  the 
salt-bleached  walls  of  an  old  sea-town,  whose  harbour 
rustled  with  a  fishing  fleet.  Its  lights  twinkled  all 
round  the  harbour.  Its  shore-street  was  full  of  boys 
playing.     They  directed  him  to  the  house  of  Jacobina. 

The  house  stood  above  the  shore,  and  a  light  from 
a  window  streamed  out  upon  Barnacles'  face  as  he 
opened  a  rustic  gate  and  stooped  beneath  a  mass  of 
honeysuckle  which  covered  its  arch.  The  door  of  the 
house  was  shut ;  a  window  in  the  French  style  open. 
When  Barnacles  knocked  at  the  door  a  voice  said  : 

*  Come  in  this  way.' 
Barnacles  entered  by  the  window. 

He  saw  a  plump  little  woman  of  some  sixty  years, 
with  pale  face  and  rather  sad  eyes,  seated  at  a  table, 
writing.     A  cat  stood  on  the  table  watching  her. 

*  I  am  Mr.  Brocklehurst,'  he  said,  '  your  amanuensis.' 
She  laid  down  the  pen  at  the  feet  of  the  cat. 

*  How  did  you  come  ?  '   she  asked. 
'  I  walked.' 

*  That 's  good  ;  I  like  you  for  that.  Do  you  readily 
lose  your  temper  ?  ' 

*  I  am  not  aware,'  stammered  Barnacles,  taken  by 
surprise. 

A  ripple  of  laughter  filled  the  room. 


330  BARNACLES 

'  I  don't  think  so,  or  you  might  have  lost  it  just  now. 
I  have  unusual  ideas.  My  amanuenses  get  mad  and 
leave.  If  there  is  any  sort  of  intolerant  devil  in  you, 
you  might  leave  now.' 

*  I  shall  stay,'  answered  Barnacles ;  '  I  am  footsore 
and  hungry.' 

He  laid  down  his  violin-case  and  black  bag. 

'  Very  good,'  answered  the  lady  ;  *  I  shall  get  water 
and  mustard  for  your  feet,  and  food  for  your  hunger. 
I  am  glad  that  you  walked.' 

'  I  had  no  option  ;   I  am  penniless.' 

'  The  mouth  of  the  world  is  parched  crying  for  money,' 
said  this  strange  lady,  as  she  hurried  out  of  the  room. 

Barnacles  went  to  the  open  window.  He  had  never 
looked  at  the  sea  from  a  house  before.  The  moon  was 
shining  on  the  shore,  on  thatched  roofs,  and  lay  in  a 
silver  band  across  a  loch.  This  silver  band  was  full 
of  little  curling  waves.  There  was  a  dreamy  plash  on 
the  shore,  whose  music  stirred  the  soul  of  Barnacles. 

He  saw  many  little  ships,  the  host  of  a  fishing  fleet, 
some  with  brown  sails,  moving  in  the  midst  of  the 
moonlit  waters  ;  and  some  without  sails,  whose  masts 
sloped  up  in  the  light  with  an  aspect  of  great  patience. 

Barnacles  drew  a  deep  breath. 

*  My  God  ! '  he  said,  '  I  did  not  know  the  world  was 
so  lovely.' 

A  quiet  voice  behind  him  said  :  *  Then  you  are  not 
indifferent  ? ' 

He  turned  swiftly. 

'  It  saddens  me,  madame  ;  it  is  fuU  of  pain ;  I  can 
hardly  bear  to  look  at  it.' 

*  That  is  a  new  point  of  view.  I  am  anxious  for 
new  ideas  ;  tell  me  what  you  mean.' 


BARNACLES  881 

*  I  cannot  bear  to  share  it  alone.  I  have  a  child  in 
Paisley.     If  he  were  here ' 

*  Then  you  are  married  ?  '  A  frown  gathered  on  the 
lady's  face. 

Barnacles  reddened. 

*  No  !  no  !  I  am  not  married.  It  is  a  child  I  love 
dearly.  It  is  not  my  own.  His  mother  is  dead.  His 
father  is  poor  and  has  lost  his  pony.  If  he  were  here 
it  would  be  twice  beautiful.' 

*  Are  they  clean,  these  poor  people  ?  '  the  lady  asked 
eagerly. 

'  The  father  was  a  soldier.  He  has  learned  to  wash. 
He  mends  the  clothes  and  the  boots.  The  house  Is  as 
clean  as  yours,'  and  Barnacles  looked  round,  and  saw 
the  cat  chasing  the  pen  across  the  table. 

*  Sit  down,'  she  said,  *  and  eat.  I  am  interested  in 
a  poor  clean  home.     Tell  me  about  them.' 

Thereupon  Barnacles  told  the  story  of  the  house  of 
Cotton  Street. 

When  he  was  finished,  the  little  lady  said  : 

*  I  am  rich  ;  but  I  give  no  money  to  the  poor.  It  is 
a  trap  for  them.  It  robs  them  of  independence,  and 
makes  them  lazy.  But  I  will  give  a  pony  to  your 
friend.' 

'  Thank  you,  madame,'  said  Barnacles,  and  rising 
took  her  hand. 

She  manifested  her  surprise  at  this  simple  proof  of 
emotion. 

'  I  hate  thanks,'  she  said. 

*  So  do  I,*  answered  Barnacles,  *  it  makes  me  feel 
small.' 

*  And  why  have  you  thanked  me  ?  ' 

'  I  don't  know  ;   I  could  not  help  it.' 


332  BARNACLES 

Another  laugh  rippled. 

*  Wash  your  feet  now,'  she  said  ;  '  I  am  going  to  like 
you,'  and  added,  '  Don't  ask  me  for  the  pony  again  ;  I 
shall  give  it  in  my  own  time.' 

'  Very  well,  madame.' 

*  And  you  must  go  with  it :  I  will  not  pay  money 
for  sending  it.  I  am  going  to  give  the  pony  and  no 
more.' 

*  I  can  walk,'  answered  Barnacles. 

*  By  and  by  ;  first  of  all  you  must  write  for  me  some 
pressing  letters.  Good-night ;  breakfast 's  at  seven. 
I  advise  you  to  bathe  in  the  sea  in  the  morning.' 

She  came  back  to  say,  '  When  you  go  with  the  pony, 
you  can  bring  back  the  little  boy.'  .  .  . 

He  was  awakened  in  the  morning  by  the  sea,  and 
thought  it  was  the  murmuring  of  Cotton  Street. 

'  What  an  awakening — by  the  horn  of  the  waters,' 
he  cried  in  glee,  and  leapt  out  of  bed. 

But  Cotton  Street  was  in  his  memory,  and  Castle- 
head.  Again  he  heard  a  voice,  fresh  as  the  skies  and 
breaking  like  the  day  over  his  soul,  saying,  '  I  love 
you.'  He  was  oblivious  to  his  surroundings.  He 
thought  of  the  song  that  had  brought  his  companion 
such  misery  last  night.  Whither  had  he  gone  ?  He 
too  loved  her.  Who  could  help  loving  her  ?  It  was 
a  natural  thing. 

The  heavy  waves  rolled  in,  measuring  their  plunge. 
In  their  sound  he  heard  the  glory  of  her  voice. 

With  shining  eyes  and  face  aU  lummous,  he  went 
down  to  meet  this  Jacobina. 

Whither  had  his  companion  gone  ? 

He  was  startled  out  of  his  reverie  by  a  voice  asking 
him  if  he  had  bathed  in  the  sea. 


BARNACLES  888 

XXII 

His  companion  was  in  Paisley,  inquiring  the  way  to 
Castlehead.  As  he  was  going  along  the  High  Street  he 
heard  a  voice : 

'  Young  man,  we  meet  again.' 

She  wore  a  high  narrow  bonnet  which  made  her 
lean  face  stand  out  like  the  prow  of  an  ancient  galley. 
Her  red  hair  seemed  to  take  on  a  deeper  flame  from 
her  fierce  tone. 

He  stopped  dead. 

*  It  is  you,'  he  said,  gazing  heavily  at  her  like  a  man 
in  a  stupor. 

*  I  have  put  it  before  God  again  and  again  to  find 
you,  but  He  did  not  answer  my  prayer.  It  was  not  the 
Lord's  fault  or  mine.  I  wanted  you  ;  no  temptation. 
Where  have  you  been,  young  man  ?  you  're  as  thin 
as  a  hen's  leg.' 

'  I  am  here  now  ;  what  is  the  matter  ?  ' 

She  banged  the  point  of  the  umbrella  on  the  pavement. 

*  The  matter  is  that  you  were  a  fool,  and  the  devil 
is  going  up  and  down  tearing  his  hair  ;  I  mean  like  a 
raging  lion  ' — she  pushed  his  shoulder  with  the  handle 
of  the  umbrella — *  for  the  last  week  she  's  frightened  ; 
ever  since  that  Barnacles  went  away  ;  a  fine  young 
man  ;  he  ought  to  have  been  a  minister.' 

*  I  know  him,'  answered  Patrick  in  a  sombre  tone. 

*  You  do  ;  then  take  an  example  from  him.  Since 
he  went  away,  all  day  and  night  she  is  frightened. 
Would  you  smile  at  my  knees,  young  man ;  no 
temptation  ;  they  're  hard  as  calves*  hoofs  wrestling 
with  God  for  her.' 

Patrick's  face  blanched. 


834  BARNACLES 

*  Is  danger  threatening  her  ?  ' 

*  Don't   shake ;    don't   shake,'    she   said   severely ; 

*  bring  me  to  a  more  private  place  and  I  will  tell  you. 
There  are  prying  ears  passing.' 

*  I  don't  know  this  town,'  he  laughed  bitterly. 

*  Come  with  me,'  she  said. 

She  led  him  to  the  place  where  Barnacles  and  his 
father  had  been,  and  ordered  tea,  warning  the  girl  in  a 
loud  voice,  '  No  leavings  now  ;  fresh  tea,  if  you  please,' 
and  laid  her  black  cotton  gloves  on  the  table,  along  with 
an  umbrella  which  pointed  Uke  a  gun  at  Patrick. 

She  leaned  forward,  closing  her  left  eye. 

'  He  is  cunning,'  she  said,  '  cunning  as  a  flea.' 

He  knew,  yet  asked. 

*  Who  are  you  talking  about  ?  * 
'  Who  ?     Satan,  your  brother.' 

She  opened  her  eye  and  made  a  curving  movement 
with  her  hand,  the  lean  fingers  spread  out  like  talons, 

*  A  hawk,  Satan  ;  he  has  no  horns.' 

'  What  has  he  done  ?  ' 

She  laughed  out  loudly. 

'  He  made  you  dance  to  his  tune  ;  he  left  you  drunk  ; 
he  put  you  in  jaU,'  she  gave  him  a  vicious  jab  with  her 
forefinger ;  '  but  you  are  nothing  ;  just  a  fool ;  it  is  her  ; 
he  married  her  ;  he  tormented  her  ;  tears,  poor  lamb, 
she  wept  an  ocean ;  the  cries  I  have  heard,  and  the 
moans  ;  what  has  he  done  ;  he  filled  the  house  with 
bawdy  women  ;  may  the  devil  bring  him  to  hell.  I 
have  asked  God  to  punish  him.  Where  were  your 
eyes,  you  proud  high  face.  You  should  have  seen 
through  his  tricks.  Was  she  to  know,  the  poor  lamb. 
Young  man,  you  have  lost  heaven.' 

*  My  God ! '  he  groaned. 


BARNACLES  335 

'  Sit  down  ;  sit  down,'  she  pushed  him  back  into  his 
seat ;  *  could  you  not  smell  Satan  burning  ?  She  's 
frightened  night  and  day  for  a  week.  Her  eyes  have 
melted  away  with  tears.  There  's  nothing  left  of  her 
but  the  angel.' 

*  What  is  she  afraid  of  ? '  His  voice  was  unnaturally 
calm,  but  his  face  was  working  convulsively. 

*  He  may  do  murder.  She  does  not  sing  now.  She 
used  to  sing  in  a  little  voice.  I  used  to  listen  at  the 
door  on  my  knees.' 

He  stood  up,  his  frame  as  rigid  as  iron,  and  spread 
out  his  hands. 

'  Have  I  no  hands  ?  *  he  said,  in  a  daze  of  pain.  *  Grood 
Mrs.  Beezle,  let  us  go.' 

There  was  something  terrible  in  the  intensity  of  his 
passion  even  to  Mrs.  Beezle.  A  shadow  of  fear  came 
into  her  eyes. 

*  TeU  him  it  must  end,'  she  stammered ;  *  he  '11  get  a 
thousand  pounds  if  he  'U  go  away  to  America' — she 
clutched  his  arm — '  get  him  away,  young  man  ;  she  's 
dying  with  fright  of  something.  She  hasn't  left  the 
house  for  a  week.  She  doesn't  eat.  I  hear  her  crying 
through  the  door.' 

A  smile  hovered  on  his  lips — a  terrible  smUe. 

*  Good  Mrs.  Beezle,'  he  answered, '  it  will  end.  Take 
me  to  your  mistress.' 

He  was  shocked  by  the  change  in  her  appearance. 
She  looked  as  if  she  had  risen  from  a  long  and  grave 
illness.     He  was  awed  by  her  white  hair. 

'  You  are  changed,'  he  hardly  knew  what  he  was 
saying.     His  gaze  rested  on  her  head. 

She  smiled  pitiably  and  touched  it  with  her  hand. 


886  BARNACLES 

*  I  never  thought,  Patrick,  I  would  see  you  agam. 
I  have  prayed  that  you  might  come ' 

He  checked  her  by  a  gesture. 

*  It  is  me  who  ought  to  have  prayed.  I  have  heard 
all  from  Mrs.  Beezle  and  from  one  who  calls  himself 
Barnacles.'    A  smile  flickered  across  his  face. 

A  cry  escaped  her. 

'  Where  did  you  see  him  ?  is  he  safe  ?  ' 

The  sight  of  her  face  and  this  cry  from  her  heart 
revealed  her  secret  to  him. 

An  intense  hatred  of  Barnacles  again  took  possession 
of  him. 

He  raised  his  bloodshot  eyes. 

'  Yes,  he  is  safe  ;  your  husband's  malice  will  not 
reach  him.' 

A  sigh  fluttered  from  her  breast.  She  walked  up  to 
him,  her  arms  hanging  loosely,  a  spent  look  on  her  face. 

'  Will  you  forgive  me,  Patrick  ?  0  dear  God,  I 
would  die  of  shame  if  you  despised  me  now.' 

She  raised  her  eyes  full  of  agony  to  his,  and  tears 
gushed  from  them.  '  I  will  kneel  to  you,'  she  moaned, 
*  if  you  will  forgive  me.' 

Her  anguish  tore  his  heart..  It  was  his  folly  that 
had  left  her  hair  like  snow,  and  was  filling  her  even 
now  with  unspeakable  fear. 

*  I  would  forgive  you  willingly,  Martha,  if  there  was 
need  ;  but  there  is  none  ' — he  made  a  choking  sound 
in  his  throat.  '  I  was  blind,  blind  ;  I  see  it  now  ;  the 
fault  is  mine  ;  but  I  am  going  to  mend  it.  I  owe  you 
a  service  ' — the  blood  was  roaring  in  his  ears  and  making 
a  mist  in  his  eyes ;  the  same  terrible  smile  was  on  his 
lips  that  Mrs.  Beezle  saw.  '  I  am  going  to  send  him 
away.' 


BARNACLES  337 

*  No  !  no  !  '  she  cried  out  in  fear,  *  do  not  go  near 
him  ;  he  is  terrible  ;   he  will  murder  you  ! ' 

Her  fear  for  him  revealing  the  deep  fountain  of  her 
tenderness  made  his  heart  swell,  and  drove  out  the 
last  shadow  of  jealousy.  These  words  began  to  echo 
in  his  brain,  '  He  will  die  to-night.'  With  a  supreme 
effort  he  restrained  the  sudden  desire  to  fling  his  arms 
around  her  and  crush  her  to  his  breast.  He  was 
forced  to  walk  away  from  her  and  sit  down  beside 
the  window  overlooking  the  spot  where  Barnacles  and 
Mrs.  Normanshire  had  last  met. 

She  followed  him  and  went  down  on  her  knees. 

'  Promise  me,  Patrick,  you  will  not  go  near  him  ;  he 
said  such  awful  things  about  us.' 

He  saw  the  crimson  flooding  her  face. 

'  Ah  !  my  God  ! '  he  brought  out,  and  put  his  arms 
blindly  round  her  shoulders.  She  sank  down  at  his 
feet  and  laid  her  brow  against  his  knee,  and  began  to 
sob. 

*  He  is  terrible  ;  his  eyes — ^I  see  them  sometimes  in 
the  night.' 

'  Tell  me,'  he  said,  '  what  did  he  do  ? ' 

*  No  !  no  !  it  is  past.' 

*  TeU  me  ;  tell  me  ' — he  put  his  hands  on  her  hair 
as  if  the  touch  would  heal.  The  caress  broke  her  down. 
The  horror  which  she  had  shared  alone  for  a  year  burst 
from  her,  and  the  teUing  of  it  frightened  her  anew. 

'  He  drew  a  razor  across  the  throat  of  the  picture ;  he 
painted  it  like  blood  ;  he  said  he  would  do  something 
worse.  He  never  shut  his  door ;  he  was  always  listen- 
ing and  watching  ;  he  walked  about  at  night.  I  could 
hear  his  breathing  outside  my  door  ' — the  remembrance 
broke  her  down  uncontrollaljlv.     '  I  had  no  friend  in 


338  BARNACLES 

the  world  except  God  and  Mrs.  Beezle.'  These  pitiable 
words  made  him  writhe ;  his  being  was  filled  with  the 
despair  of  remorse. 

*  0  !  0  ! !  0  ! ! !  he  killed  my  poor  mummy  ;  I  was 
frightened  to  die  ;   I  asked  him  to  kill  me.' 

As  he  felt  the  shuddering  of  her  body,  it  seemed  to 
him  as  if  he  was  plunged  in  burning  lava.  In  this 
woman,  whose  very  word  had  thrUled  him,  and  who  had 
given  to  his  life  an  incomparable  exaltation,  there  was 
nothing  left  but  unassuagable  pain.  Though  fiendish 
hatred  of  his  brother  was  burning  in  his  breast,  he 
marvelled  yet  at  the  heroism  which  made  her  support 
the  shame  and  horror  of  that  infamous  house.  True 
heart !  orphaned  and  broken !  He  put  her  away 
gently  from  his  knee  and  rose,  drawing  himself  up  to 
his  full  height.  He  showed  no  external  trace  of  what 
he  was  feeling,  except  that  his  face  was  ghastly  white, 
and  that  having  lifted  his  hands  and  looked  at  them, 
he  raised  them  clenched  in  a  silent  gesture  towards 
the  ceiling. 

She  also  rose  and  faced  him. 

*  You,  too — have  suffered  ' ;  she  was  still  sobbing. 

*  That  is  all  over,'  he  said.  *  The  hour  of  my  re- 
demption is  come  ;  I  am  glad  that  I  saw  you  again  ; 
I  am  going  away  on  a  far  journey.' 

She  clung  to  his  arm  like  a  drowning  child.     '  Don't 
go  ;  don't ;  I  have  so  few  friends.' 
He  took  her  hands  in  his. 

*  Have  patience  ;  patience,'  his  voice  broke ;  '  your 
sufferings  are  at  an  end  ;  you  will  be  happy  yet.' 
He  released  her  hands,  put  his  own  upon  her  head,  and 
swiftly  stooping,  kissed  her  on  the  brow.  The  blood 
roared  in  his  ears,  the  mist  was  again  before  his  eyes 


BARNACLES  339 

as  he  ran  from  the  room.  When  he  reached  the 
front  door  he  saw  a  long  sword  with  a  basket  handle 
hanging  against  the  wall.  He  reached  up,  seized 
the  sword  beneath  the  handle,  and  wrenched  out 
the  nail. 

IMrs,  Normanshire  saw  him.  The  sight  turned  her 
blood  to  water. 

*  Patrick  !  Patrick  ! ! '  her  cry  of  horror  rang  through 
the  house.     The  front  door  clanged  to  in  answer. 

She  ran  to  the  door  and  into  the  garden.  It  was 
already  empty  ;  and  the  wooden  door  in  the  wall  was 
slightly  ajar. 

She  gazed  about  her  in  a  dazed  way,  as  if  expecting 
to  see  some  one  in  the  garden.  One  of  her  hands 
wandered  up  to  her  face,  to  her  head,  in  the  manner  of 
one  trying  to  recall  something.  A  mavis  was  singing 
in  the  twilight  on  the  highest  branch  of  a  beech,  for  it 
is  there  at  his  angelus  this  songster  mounts  to  face  the 
last  light.  She  looked  up  at  the  bird  and  listened  to 
the  prodigal  melody. 

*  0  birdie  !  birdie,'  she  moaned,  '  you  will  break 
my  heart ! '  and  sank  on  the  seat  where  she  had  told 
Barnacles  her  love.  The  careless  bird  poured  forth 
his  rapture  over  her  head. 


XXIII 

Ganson  Normanshire  had  sought  unweariedly  for 
his  wife  high  and  low  ;  had  inserted  advertisements  in 
the  newspapers,  and  had  employed  detectives.  His 
loneliness,  his  despair,  and  his  evil  courses  had  wrecked 


340  BARNACLES 

his  body,  blighted  his  miad,  and  killed  his  soul.  His 
one  fixed  idea  had  been  to  discover  his  wife,  in  order 
that  he  might  observe  her  torment. 

Mingled  with  his  hatred  was  jealousy.  He  tortured 
himself,  imagining  she  was  kissing  other  men.  In 
those  terrible  hours  she  became  dearer  to  him  than 
life  itself.  Sometimes  when  he  was  in  the  midst  of 
an  orgy,  she  would  appear  before  his  burning  eyeballs  ; 
and  he  would  follow  this  phantom  thing  through  the 
house,  entreating  it,  or  firing  at  it  with  a  revolver. 
The  walls,  the  doors,  the  furniture  were  riddled  with 
bullets. 

But  the  phantom  gave  him  no  rest.  He  went  from 
silent  room  to  silent  room  of  the  dread  house,  foUowing 
those  flower-like  eyes  and  luminous  face  which  for 
ever  beckoned  him  on.  Sometimes  he  screamed 
*  Where  is  my  brother  ? '  and  the  smoke  of  the  revolver 
curled  up  in  a  sea  of  silence. 

The  face  shining  with  an  unearthly  light,  the  body 
clothed  in  a  garment  of  flame,  ceased  to  recede  and 
began  to  pursue  him.  When  the  echo  of  his  screams 
rang  through  the  empty  rooms,  he  imagined  they  were 
the  rattling  of  chains  about  to  bind  his  limbs  in  order 
that  the  face  would  come  and  perch  upon  him  lilie  a 
bird  of  prey.     The  face  was  near  him  now. 

*  Patrick  ! '  he  screamed,  '  take  it  away.' 

A  profound  stillness  filled  the  room,  as  if  the  phantom 
had  drenched  the  darkness  with  the  silence  and  shadow 
of  death. 

As  he  raised  the  revolver  to  fire,  a  knocking  soimded 
on  the  outer  door.  He  put  down  the  revolver  on  the 
top  of  a  bookcase,  and  was  about  to  drag  some  furni- 
ture against  the  door,  when  the  knocking  rang  once 


BARNACLES  841 

more  through  the  house  ;  and  before  he  could  stir  the 
front  door  opened. 

*  Patrick  ! '  he  screamed. 

*  I  am  here,  Ganson,'  a  deep  voice  answered,  and 
Patrick  was  in  the  room,  standing  over  his  trembling 
brother  like  an  executioner,  with  the  sword  of  the 
martyrs  in  his  hand. 

As  they  looked  at  one  another  a  church  bell  rang 
somewhere  in  the  city. 

As  they  stUl  gazed  the  bell,  the  voice  of  the  twilight, 
ceased,  and  gloom  descended  on  the  house. 

Patrick,  without  speaking,  walked  near  the  fire,  sat 
down,  put  the  sword  ready  to  his  hand  in  the  angle 
which  the  bookcase  made  with  the  waU. 

*  Take  a  seat,  my  brother,'  he  pointed  to  a  chair  at 
the  other  side  of  the  fireplace,  '  and  let  us  talk.' 


XXIV 

He  was  wearing  ragged  slippers ;  his  clothes,  badly 
stained,  were  half  open  ;  his  face,  with  its  sunken  eyes, 
was  that  of  a  ravaged  debauchee. 

The  room  was  filled  with  the  smeU  of  decay  from 
dead  flowers,  perhaps  used  once  at  an  orgy.  Patrick, 
who  was  examining  his  brother  and  the  room,  which 
painfully  reminded  him  of  the  old,  gracious  life,  was 
startled  by  his  brother's  voice. 

'  This  house  is  full  of  ghosts.  They  squeeze  the 
blood  out  of  my  heart !  ' 

*  You  are  not  looking  well,'  answered  Patrick,  in  a 
quiet  tone, 


842  BARNACLES 

'  I  'm  living  in  a  grave ' ;  his  teeth  began  to  chatter. 
'  I  am  going  to  Paris  in  the  morning.' 

*  Where  is  your  wife  ?  ' 

*  Gone.'  A  sneer  came  into  his  face.  '  The  company 
of  an  obscure  artist  was  too  rude.' 

*  Ah  !  could  you  not  see,  my  dear  brother,  how  it 
would  end  ?  She  threw  me  over,  then  you  ;  ha  !  ha  ! 
ha  !  and  left  you  in  a  grave.  I  was  not  cunning 
enough.  I  ought  to  have  married  her  in  spite  of  all. 
I  would  not  have  starved  in  a  hole  in  Glasgow  then. 
I  would  have  got  money.' 

*  Curse  her !   she 's  gone,  money  and  all ! ' 

*  I  condole  with  you,  my  brother.  What  an  escape 
I  've  had.' 

The  artist  leaned  forward,  bared  his  teeth,  and 
hissed :  *  She  despised  my  pictures ;  she  called  me  a 
monkey ;  but  she  used  to  crouch  like  a  dog  when  I 
passed  her.' 

*Your  very  shadow  made  her  tremble,  did  it  not, 
my  brother  ?  ' 

'  She  angered  me,'  his  voice  shook  with  rage ;  *  by 
heaven,  you  got  your  revenge.' 

'  Thanks,  my  brother,  thanks  ' :  he  put  his  hands  in 
his  trouser  pockets  to  conceal  their  trembling.  *  Is  it 
not  strange,  though,  how  cruel  we  can  be  to  the  weak ; 
crueller,  I  mean,  than  we  need  be  ? ' 

*  It 's  like  sticking  a  needle  into  a  frog  ' — the  artist 
began  to  lick  his  lips,  '  the  more  it  squirms  the  more 
you  prick  it.  I  remember  when  I  was  at  school  how 
I  used  to  let  the  needle  sink  slowly  in.  I  could  feel  it 
up  my  arm  sinking  into  the  softness.' 

*  So  you  could  ;  so  you  could  ;  frogs  or  women ' :  a 
smile  was  playing  round  the  lips  of  Patrick, 


BARNACLES  843 

*  She  angered  me,  I  tell  you,  with  her  proud  face. 
And  chaste ;  what  a  chaste  wife  you  lost,  Patrick.  If  I 
brought  a  lady  friend  into  the  house,  she  would  not 
speak  to  me  for  two  days.' 

Patrick  jumped  to  his  feet,  and  a  sound  of  broken 
glass  startled  the  artist.  His  brother,  who  was  stand- 
ing with  his  back  to  him,  had  snapped  a  whisky  glass 
in  his  hand.     Blood  was  spurting  from  it. 

Patrick  faced  his  brother. 

*  It  is  stupid  of  me,'  he  said,  holding  out  the  frag- 
ments, '  breaking  helpless  things.' 

'  It  is  good  sport — sometimes,'  said  the  artist ;  *  is  it 
a  drink  you  're  after  ? ' 

'  Devil ! '  ejaculated  the  younger  brother,  and  threw 
the  fragments  of  glass  on  the  fire. 

*  What  ?  '  said  the  artist,  starting  up  in  his  chair. 

*  Her !  her !  she  jUted  me,  you  know ;  I  am  more 
than  avenged ' :  he  drew  his  hand  across  his  eyes  and 
downwards.  It  left  a  red  smear  on  the  low  part  of  his 
brow  like  a  cross. 

The  artist  burst  out  laughing. 

*  Damn !  I  could  paint  you  now  as  a  lost  angel, 
dabbled  with  blood.' 

The  younger  brother  began  moving  about  the  room, 
with  a  step  like  that  of  a  caged  tiger. 

*  Oh  !  paint,'  he  said,  *  that  reminds  me.  I  had  the 
extreme  pleasure  once  of  seeing  your  work  in  the 
galleries,  my  brother.  I  would  like  to  see  it  again,  if 
you  woidd  be  so  kind.  The  portrait,  you  under- 
stand.' 

The  artist  jumped  up,  and  went  to  a  pair  of  curtains 
hanging  from  two  brass  rods  which,  fixed  in  the  wall, 
met,  forming  with  the  wall  as  base  an  isosceles  triangle. 


844  BARNACLES 

The  artist  drew  the  curtains  and  revealed  the  portrait 
standing  on  an  easel. 

*  I  keep  it  beside  me  for  heart's  ease,'  he  said. 

*  Bring  it  out,  my  brother — into  the  light.' 

The  artist  lifted  out  the  easel,  and  beckoned  on  his 
brother,  who  stepped  forward  and  stood  beside  him. 
Their  shoulders  touched.  Neither  of  them  spoke  nor 
moved.  The  silence  in  the  room  was  like  the  grave 
as  they  gazed  at  the  portrait. 

It  was  horribly  mutilated.  The  canvas  was  slashed 
across  the  throat,  and  the  gash  painted  red.  One  eye 
was  gouged  out.  The  mouth,  wide  and  slack,  was  set 
in  a  distorted  grin.  One  hand  had  been  hacked  oflE 
at  the  wrist  and  left  a  bleeding  stump.  The  Greek 
robe,  once  white,  was  scarlet.  Over  the  left  breast  was 
painted  an  Ace  of  Hearts  with  a  dagger  sticking  in  the 
centre  of  the  heart.  Round  about  the  feet  were  strewn 
the  silken  garments  and  ribbons  of  a  woman  ;  and 
across  one  naked  foot,  from  which  the  billowing  silk 
had  ebbed  away,  a  snake  was  coiled. 

'  Behold  Helen  of  Troy  ;  it 's  a  masterpiece.'  The 
artist's  voice  rang  with  pride. 

The  younger  brother  looked  over  his  shoulder  at 
the  sword. 

*  It 's  not  finished,  though  ;  I  'm  going  to  mix 
arsenic  with  paint  and  put  it  there.  He  placed  his 
forefinger  on  the  Ace  of  Hearts.  '  Shall  I  put  a  wreath 
of  nettles  on  her  head,  think  you,  Patrick  ;  or  is  it 
too  crude  ?  I  thought  of  a  horned  little  devil  dancing 
naked  before  her,  but  there  is  no  room  on  the  canvas.' 
His  voice  was  full  of  enthusiasm. 

'  Do  you  mean  to  kill  her  ?  '  Patrick  whispered  in  his 
brother's  ear. 


BARNACLES  845 

'  Yes,  like  that ' — he  indicated  once  more  the  Ace 
of  Hearts ;  *  I  will  put  the  knife  in  a  little  till  it  bleeds.' 

*  Like  the  toad,  I  think  you  said.* 

*  Exactly  ;  it  goes  in  like  that — slowly.' 

Patrick  was  all  at  once  aware  of  his  bleeding  hand. 
He  raised  it  and  looked  at  the  blood  as  if  it  belonged  to 
some  one  else.  Shaking  himself  like  a  dog,  he  stepped 
forward,  laid  his  bleeding  hand  on  the  throat,  and 
allowed  his  blood  to  sink  into  the  wound  on  the  canvas. 

*  Quite  fantastic,'  cried  the  artist  in  glee,  his  eyes 
gleaming  with  malicious  mirth. 

StiU  Patrick  kept  his  hand  there,  and  aU  the  time 
gazed  into  the  smiling  eye  of  the  canvas.  He  pressed 
his  hand  hard  on  the  cut  throat,  and  said  : 

'  She  smiles.' 

'  It  was  for  you  she  smiled,'  the  artist  answered  with 
sudden  rancour,  lowering  upon  his  brother. 

'  For  me — I  think  she  was  good  and  tender  to  every 
one — see,  my  blood  is  weeping  there  like  tears.' 

At  this  moment  a  sound  was  heard  without  the  room 
— one  of  those  sounds  which  occur  in  a  still  house  as 
if  the  furniture  in  the  dead  of  night  came  to  life. 

The  artist  started  back  and  threw  up  his  head. 

*  Did  you  hear  a  step  outside,  Patrick  ?  ' 
Patrick  took  his  hand  from  the  canvas. 

*  Yes,'  he  said  in  a  low  voice,  '  hell  is  moving,  my 
brother.' 

The  artist's  face  became  white  with  fear.  He  ran 
to  the  door,  turned  the  key,  tore  it  out,  hesitated  un- 
certain what  to  do  with  it,  and  running  back  threw  it 
in  the  fire. 

*  Ganson !  * 

At  the  sound  of  his  name  the  artist  jumped  back 


846  BARNACLES 

from  the  fire.  His  brother  was  standing  with  one  hand 
behind  his  back  ;  with  the  other  he  was  pointing  at  the 
portrait. 

*  Ganson  !    You  have  done  that.' 

'  Curse  her  !  she  made  me  ;  her  ghost  comes  prowling 
in  here.' 

*  You  have  broken  her  like  that — good  sport,  wasn't 
it?' 

'  I  wiU  put  arsenic — ^a  snake — nettles,  by  God  I '  he 
foamed. 

*  Ganson !  * 

The  name  rang  out,  compelling  attention. 

'You  congratulate  yourself  on  your  masterpiece — 
is  it  not  so,  Satan  ? '  The  soul  of  hatred  was  concen- 
trated in  this  last  word  as  the  sword  swung  round  and 
was  pointed  dead  and  full  at  the  breast  of  the  artist. 

'  Down,  dog !  down  on  your  knees,  and  ask  her 
pardon  from  the  portrait.' 

'  Who  are  you,  devil  ?  '  the  artist  screamed. 

*  I  am  the  footsteps  you  hear  in  the  house ;  I  am 
the  ghost  that  waited  in  the  dark  and  squeezed  the 
blood  out  of  your  heart.' 

The  eyes  of  the  artist  filled  with  terror.  He  cowered 
away  from  his  brother. 

*  Down,  you  damned  slave ! ' 

*  Will  you  go  away,'  he  sobbed  between  his  fingers, 
'  if  I  do  ? ' 

The  sword  lunged  forward  and  pricked  him  on  the 
shoulder. 

'  Down,  dog  !     I  give  you  a  minute.' 

The  artist  grovelled  on  his  knees. 

'  Tell  her  you  are  a  lost  soul  out  of  heU — ^no,  no 
faltering,  or  I  '11  stab  you  where  you  kneel — a  slave, 


BARNACLES  847 

say  it — ^yes.  Say,  "  Long-suffering  soul,  I  ask  your 
pardon  ;  woman  with  the  soul  of  an  angel,  may  you 
have  many  happy  days  on  earth  when  I  am  in  hell."  * 

These  words  roused  all  the  jealousy  in  the  artist's 
nature.  He  squirmed  round,  gnashing  his  teeth,  and 
raising  eyes  fierce  and  red  like  a  wolf's  to  his  brother's. 

'  Happy  with  you  ?  '  he  screamed,  meeting  the  hard 
stare  of  his  brother  with  unwinking  eyes  of  fire. 

'  No,  with  another  man ;  his  name  is  Barnacles  ; 
she  is  madly  in  love  with  him.  She  is  going  to  be 
happy.  Do  you  hear,  you  beast ;  happy,  happy,  happy ! ' 
The  atmosphere  had  changed.  The  silence  in  which 
revenge  and  murder  lurk  filled  the  room. 

The  artist  looked  from  his  eyelashes  at  the  revolver 
resting  on  the  top  of  the  bookcase.  '  Let  me  up,'  he 
snarled. 

*  I  have  not  told  you  aU,'  said  Patrick,  in  a  tone  in 
which  rage  was  swiftly  gaining  the  mastery ;  '  she  lives 
in  Paisley,  at  Castlehead.     Do  you  hear — Castlehead.' 

'  Castlehead  !  Castlehead  ! '  he  repeated,  fixing  the 
name  in  his  memory ;  '  you  know  her  boudoir — were 
you  with  her  to-day,  you  pale-faced  fox  ? ' 

'  You  've  broken  her,  trampled  on  her  body  and 
soul ;  she  lives  in  terror  that  you  '11  come.' 

'  Ay,  by  God  I  will !   I  '11  drag  her  here.' 

Patrick  paid  no  attention  to  him. 

*  You  have  not  done  all  yet.  Get  up,  dog  !  there  's 
more  to  be  done.' 

The  artist  jumped  up,  and  began  edging  towards  the 
fire  and  the  bookcase. 

*  Stop  !   get  out  your  paints.' 

The  artist  bared  his  teeth  to  the  gums,  and  began 
hissing  at  his  brother. 


848  BARNACLES 

At  once  the  sword  lunged  out. 

'  It  goes  in  like  this,  into  the  toad,'  Patrick  laughed. 
Blood  oozed  out,  staining  the  artist's  shirt. 

'  The  paints,  my  brother,'  and  the  red  sword-point 
darted  again. 

The  artist  gave  a  yeU,  got  down  on  his  knees,  and 
pulled  from  beneath  the  curtain  his  painting  materials. 

'  Paint  out  the  portrait,  my  brother,'  and  Patrick 
advanced  holding  up  the  point  of  the  sword. 

The  work  went  on  in  absolute  silence.  A  heavy 
step,  maybe  a  policeman's,  was  heard  without.  The 
measured  tread  passed  away.  The  brush  made  little 
harsh  sounds  on  the  canvas. 

As  he  was  painting  out  the  face  a  change  came  over 
the  artist's  own  face.  It  became  convulsed  with 
madness. 

*  To  hell ! '  he  screamed,  and  snatching  up  the  canvas 
he  flung  it  on  the  fire.  He  watched  it  blaze  for  a 
moment ;  then  picking  it  up  he  leapt  at  his  brother 
with  the  burning  brand.  The  sword  whistled  through 
the  air  and  slashed  across  the  canvas,  scattering 
flaming  fragments  across  the  room,  and  laying  open 
the  artist's  cheek.  With  insane  laughter  he  flung  the 
stump  of  the  canvas  in  the  face  of  his  brother,  fell  on 
the  floor,  scuttled  past  Patrick  on  his  hands  and  knees, 
jumped  up  like  a  diver  emerging  from  the  water,  and 
seized  the  revolver.  As  Patrick  turned  he  heard  the 
click  and  saw  the  flash  and  felt  a  prickling  as  of  fire  in 
his  side.  Again  the  click  ;  the  hammer  snapped  ;  but 
there  was  no  report.  With  a  snarl  he  flung  the  revolver 
as  Patrick  lunged  and  ran  the  sword  through  his 
brother's  shoulder.  The  revolver  crashed  against  the 
wall  over  the  fireplace.    Before   Patrick  could   use 


BARNACLES  849 

the  sword  again  the  artist  had  flung  himself  upon 
him. 

*  Cunning,  bloody  beast ! — stole  my  wife — damn  spy — 
make  me  kneel ! ' — was  panted  in  Patrick's  face,  as  his 
brother's  teeth  clicked  and  snapped,  trying  to  bite.  A 
slight  smell  of  singeing  crept  into  the  atmosphere. 

*  Say  it,  you  slave,'  whispered  Patrick,  '  once  more 
before  you  die  :  "  May  she  live  many  happy  days."  ' 

The  artist  was  biting,  screaming,  blaspheming. 
The  acrid  smell  gave  way  to  a  stench  of  burning.  A 
thin  blue  smoke  was  filling  the  room.  Patrick  became 
aware  of  it,  and  fought  silently,  his  mouth  closed.  A 
fierce  burning  pain  was  in  his  side.  The  blood  that 
soaked  his  brother's  shirt  smeared  his  cheek.  At  that 
moment  an  easy  chair  burst  into  fire.  The  artist 
began  to  cough.  A  flame  shot  up  through  the  reek. 
Its  glare  lit  up  the  blood  upon  them.  The  artist  was 
conscious  of  it  on  his  eyeballs. 

*  The  room  is  on  fire,'  he  panted,  and  tried  to  release 
himself  from  his  brother's  grip. 

*  Bum,'  sobbed  Patrick ;  '  our  mother  is  hiding  her 
face  in  heaven  ;  burn,  devil ! ' 

The  artist,  maddened  with  terror,  put  forth  the 
strength  of  a  demoniac,  and  bore  his  brother  to  the 
floor.  Over  and  over  they  rolled  in  the  midst  of  the 
smoke  and  flames.  Their  clothes  took  fire.  They 
were  fighting  now,  they  knew  not  for  what.  Patrick, 
weakened  by  days  and  nights  of  hunger  and  weariness 
of  the  roads  and  loss  of  blood,  relaxed  his  grip.  A  hot 
gimlet  was  boring  into  his  eyeballs.  The  fire  was  in 
his  throat.  His  legs  were  clothed  in  agonising  pain. 
Something  bright  struck  him  on  the  face  and  poured 
a  cataract  of  pain  upon  him.     He  put  up  his  hands  to 


350  BARNACLES 

push  it  away.  It  fell  on  him  again  with  a  bright  light 
that  went  through  his  head  and  made  him  scream.  He 
heard  a  voice  far  away  saying,  '  The  key  1  key  !  key  !  ' 
He  could  not  understand.  Yes  ;  he  remembered  now. 
'  You  flung — key — in — fire — fire — Ganson.'  With  a 
supreme  effort  he  wrenched  himself  on  to  his  feet  to 
go  for  the  key.  He  was  wrapped  in  flame — he  staggered 
forward,  stumbled  against  something  at  his  feet — and 
pitched  headlong  over  the  body  of  his  brother.  The 
legs  jerked  spasmodically — the  face  turned  black — 
one  arm  shot  out,  lay  a  moment  on  his  brother's  cheek  ; 
he  writhed,  rolled  over — ^and  lay  still,  his  face  beside 
his  brother's. 

The  night  crept  on.  The  sounds  of  Glasgow  died 
away.  A  faint  rumbling  was  heard  far  off.  It  grew 
into  a  roar.    The  fire  brigade  was  coming. 


XXV 

Jacobina  was  carrying  on  *  a  war  of  regeneration  ' 
through  the  medium  of  the  newspaper  press.  She 
would  write  a  letter  on  some  question  of  politics, 
economics,  social  reform  or  the  like,  and  instruct 
Barnacles  to  make  scores  of  copies  of  this  letter,  which 
he  was  to  send  to  aU  the  editors  in  Great  Britain. 

She  was  a  woman  of  fortune.  Much  money  was 
left  to  her  by  a  relative  who  had  been  engaged  in  the 
opium  trade  in  China ;  and  she,  having  an  exacting 
conscience,  began  her  '  war  of  regeneration '  in  order  to 
wipe  away  the  stain  on  this  money  got  by  a  nefarious 
traffic.    The  *  war  '  had  become  an  obsession. 


BARNACLES  351 

She  owned  a  great  deal  of  property,  but  seldom 
gave  her  tenants  a  chance  if  they  were  overdue  with 
their  rents.  Yet  it  was  common  knowledge  in  the 
village  that  if  any  of  these  tenants  became  ill  she  would 
be  the  first  to  visit  them  with  a  basket  of  delicacies. 
She  was  especially  charitable  to  women  in  child-bed. 
Everywhere  on  these  visits  she  carried  a  cat  in  a 
basket. 

Barnacles,  whom  she  liked  so  much  that  she  intended 
to  make  him  a  plenipotentiary-missionary  in  her 
campaign,  was  nonplussed. 

*  You  wish  to  send  me  among  the  people,'  he  said. 

*  Certainly  ;  I  require  a  missionary.  You  shall  not 
lack  for  money.' 

*  I  am  not  thinking  of  money ' ;  his  face  grew  red. 

*  What  are  you  thinking  of,  then  ?  ' 

*  You  turn  people  out  of  their  homes,  and  then  preach 
to  them  when  they  are  shivering  in  the  streets.  It  is 
very  cold  in  the  streets  or  in  a  close-mouth,'  said 
Barnacles  sadly. 

'  Of  course  I  turn  them  out,'  she  said  crisply ;  *  they 
are  lazy  and  asleep.  I  put  them  to  the  door  to  waken 
them  up.     If  I  was  soft-hearted ' 

*  But  you  are.' 

*  Don't  interrupt,  or  attempt  to  flatter.  If  I  was 
soft-hearted,  I  repeat,  I  would  have  every  house  of 
mine  full  of  loafers.  Are  you  listening  ?  '  she  said  in 
her  soft  voice,  her  sad  eyes  smiling  at  him. 

*  I  am  attentive,  madame.' 

*  Very  well.  Scotland  is  fuU  of  loafers.  Their  bread 
comes  too  easy.  God  has  never  sent  a  famine  on  us. 
That 's  what 's  wrong  with  the  country.' 

*  Surely  God  knows  best,'  said  Barnacles  mildly. 


852  BARNACLES 

*  He  is  long-suffering,  that 's  what  it  is  ;  but  I  have 
no  patience.  There  are  no  men  of  iron  about.  We  're 
all  as  soft  as  saps.  We  're  needing  lightning  among  us 
to  rouse  us.  The  wives  are  so  lazy  they  do  not  even 
wash  their  feet.  Look  at  the  sea.  Only  you  and  I 
bathe  in  it.  Oh  yes,  it  is  true.'  She  had  caught 
the  smile  on  Barnacles'  face.  *  This  doctor  whom  we 
have  here  told  me  only  yesterday  that  a  certain  fine  lady 
called  on  him  to  have  her  foot  examined.  It  was  as 
clean  as  a  baby's.  He  asked  her  to  take  off  the  other 
shoe  and  she  refused.  He  insisted,  because  he  wanted  to 
compare  the  injured  foot  with  the  other  one.  It  took 
him  half  an  hour  to  persuade  her.  And  when  the  shoe 
came  off  there  was  a  stocking  fuU  of  holes  and  a  foot 
as  black  as  the  kettle.  What  do  you  think  of  that, 
Mr.  Brocklehurst  ?  ' 

'  Circumstances  are  sometimes  very  oppressive,' 
answered  Barnacles,  his  blue  eyes  twinkling ;  *  I  am 
sorry  for  this  misguided  woman.  The  doctor's  zeal 
exceeded  her  expectations.' 

'  Sorry !  If  I  was  the  doctor,  I  would  have  painted 
the  foot  with  iodine  and  put  on  a  mustard  blister.  Do 
you  laugh  ?  That 's  why  the  back  doors  are  cluttered 
with  dirt  while  the  front  steps  are  clean.  That 's 
why  wives  creep  into  bed  when  their  husbands  aren't 
looking,  with  their  feet  tucked  in  their  nightdress.  You 
can  laugh.  Why,  I  laugh  too — at  their  husbands.  But 
there,  we  are  aU  busy  hiding  something  from  one 
another.    Aren't  you  hiding  something  from  me  ?  ' 

Barnacles  was  startled  by  the  unexpectedness  of  the 
question,  and  said  '  Yes.'  He  was  thinking  of  Mrs. 
Normanshire. 

*  Oh,  you  needn't  get  red  in  the  face.     I  know  it. 


BARNACLES  353 

Most  of  us  are  hiding  dirty  feet — the  people  generally. 
They  're  only  clean  where  they  are  forced  to  be,  out  of 
decency.  I  want  them  to  be  clean  out  of  self-respect. 
They  must  be  shamed  out  of  laziness  and  idleness. 
Life  in  the  land  is  a  big  No,  not  a  Yes.  People  are 
busy  backbiting  when  they  ought  to  be  busy  living  a 
big  Yes.     Am  I  making  myself  plain  ? ' 

'  You  are,'  answered  Barnacles. 

'  I  '11  sketch  out  a  letter  for  you  on  this  topic  for  the 
papers — something  like  this — what  twiddle-twiddle- 
twaddle  there  is  ;  words  flying  like  snowflakes,  and 
melting  like  them  and  leaving  people  cold — ^progress, 
politics,  evolution,  social,  liberal,  fortune-telling ;  we  're 
snowed  under.' 

*  Is  it  not  words,  madame,  you  wish  me  also  to  use  ?  ' 
asked  Barnacles. 

*  No,  nor  words.  In  every  comer  we  have  words. 
Young  men  repair  to  the  imiversities  and  go  through 
a  routine.  Everything  is  routine.  It  is  killing  us. 
We  are  not  free  nowadays.  We  are  slaves  to  a  million 
regulations.  Then  they  leave  the  universities,  and 
one  settles  down  in  a  comer  and  another  in  another 
comer.  They  don't  go  about  doing  good.  They  don't 
go  to  the  people.  They  make  the  people  come  to  them. 
One  doctor  wiU  not  go  to  another  doctor's  patients 
unless  he  gets  permission.  Ministers,  with  their  robes, 
won't  teach  outside  a  little  wooden  box,  or  go  into  the 
streets  and  the  market-place.  They  are  all  officials  and 
slaves  ;  and  the  skinflints  and  the  roysterers  and  the 
bullies  move  about.' 

*  What  will  I  do  then  ?  '  asked  Barnacles  in  a 
bewildered  voice. 

*  You  wiU  move  about  from  place  to  place.     Fling  a 

z 


854  BARNACLES 

hatchet  among  the  people.  Go  m  to  their  homes. 
Drive  out  dirt.  Make  the  lazy  ashamed.  Encourage 
the  struggling  and  help  those  in  straits.  I  will  supply 
you  with  money.'  She  stopped  a  moment,  out  of 
breath,  and  shot  a  question  at  Barnacles,  '  Where  will 
you  begin  ?  ' 

'  If  you  please,'  answered  Barnacles,  *  I  will  begin  in 
Paisley.' 

'  Very  good ;  you  will  report  to  me  onoe  a  month. 
And  when  I  need  you  specially  here  you  will  come. 
You  will  start  this  evening.' 

'  This  evening  !  ' 

*  Perhaps  you  would  like  to  wait  tiU  to-morrow  and 
go  by  steamer,  as  all  the  world  does.  Is  that  the  way 
to  begin  your  work  by  falling  into  routine  and  accepted 
ways  ?  For  shame,  Mr.  Brocklehurst !  remember  you 
are  a  missionary.' 

Barnacles'  face  was  lit  up  with  joy. 

'  I  don't  care  how  I  go,'  he  answered ;  '  it  is  a  road 
that  wiU  not  weary  me.' 

Some  hours  later,  when  they  had  finished  tea,  Miss 
Jacobina  turned  her  little  round  face  and  moist  beseech- 
ing eyes  to  him : 

*  Rise  now,  Mr.  Brocklehurst,  and  go  to  Paisley  ;  the 
evening  is  calm  and  clear.' 

And  when  Barnacles  came  out  to  the  rustic  gate, 
lo  !  tethered  to  it  was  a  pony,  with  a  blanket  on  its 
back. 

*  This  is  the  pony  I  promised  for  your  friend ; 
the  blanket  is  for  you  to  sleep  in;  and  this  is  for 
yourself — ^for  your  needs  and  for  the  deserving 
poor.' 

She  put  a  roll  of  notes  in  Barnacles'  hand — the  first 


BARNACLES  355 

money  that  passed  between  them  since  he  came  there 
five  weeks  ago. 

*  In  the  flaps  of  the  saddle  you  will  find  food.  I 
expect  you  back  a  month  from  now.     Good-bye.' 

Barnacles,  sitting  the  pony — an  ungainly  figure — 
leaned  down,  took  her  hand,  and  raised  it  to  his  lips. 

'  Is  that  how  a  missionary  behaves  ? '  she  cried  angrily. 
In  the  shadow  of  the  honeysuckle  Barnacles  could  not 
see  the  crimson  mounting  to  her  cheeks  and  brow. 

*  No,'  he  answered  boldly ;  '  nevertheless,  you  are 
soft-hearted  and  very  kind,  madame.' 

She  made  no  answer.     Her  fingers  were  nervously 
teasing  the  pony's  mane. 
Barnacles  drew  in  the  reins. 

*  Little  horse,  let  us  get  on  in  God's  n'ame.*    • 

Miss  Jacobina  was  still  at  the  gate  in  the  shadow 
of  the  honeysuckle  long  after  the  sound  of  the  hoofs 
had  died  away  along  the  empty  road.  Her  heart  had 
been  taken  by  surprise.  So  she  excused  herself  over 
and  over  again,  but  with  no  great  conviction. 

Barnacles  was  not  thinking  at  that  moment,  any 
more  than  Miss  Jacobina  was,  of  reforming  the  world 
by  taking  it  unawares  at  the  market-place  and  the 
comers  of  the  streets,  and  telling  it  to  clean  its  feet. 
Paisley  was  shining  before  him  as  a  fire  to  a  wayfarer 
seen  from  afar  bums  on  the  edge  of  the  night. 

The  stars  were  lamps  to  illuminate  the  road  ;  and 
as  through  the  night  he  walked  alongside  the  pony  and 
stroked  its  neck  he  said  with  a  voice  full  of  tenderness : 

'  Little  horse  !   we  are  going  to  Paisley.' 

The  memory  of  that  town  was  inviolable  in  his  soul. 


356  BARNACLES 


XXVI 

As  he  rode  into  Paisley  light  of  the  sunset  met  him 
from  the  shining  town,  and  came  up  into  his  eyes  from 
the  glowing  river.  Doves  were  flying  over  against  the 
golden  sky  across  the  Abbey  roof.  It  was  as  if  they 
had  escaped  from  his  breast. 

'  I  wish  I  had  a  white  horse,'  he  said,  drinking  in  the 
radiance. 

He  checked  the  pony  as  he  crossed  the  Cart,  and  sat 
with  his  long  legs  dangling,  watching  the  river — this 
water  which,  coming  from  the  clouds  and  soiled  on  its 
passage  through  the  world  towards  the  cleansing  sea, 
was  nevertheless  flooded  with  light,  like  a  bright  hope 
harboured  even  here  in  the  foulest  part  of  its  course. 
Everything  was  mysterious,  inscrutable,  destined — the 
splendour  of  the  green  and  golden  sky  ;  the  moving 
of  the  burning  waters ;  the  doves  with  glittering 
wings  in  the  clear  air — all  kindled  in  the  radiance 
with  hope  of  a  greater  glory.  And  Barnacles  there 
in  Paisley  also  with  a  mysterious  light  of  hope  in  his 
breast. 

'  I  wish  I  had  a  white  horse,'  he  said  once  more ; 
then,  gazing  around  at  the  peaceful  town  and  the 
evening  smoke  going  up,  *God  bless  the  roofs  that 
shelter  their  heads ! ' 

He  rode  on,  a  strange  figure  in  the  ill-fitting  clothes 
of  Patrick  Normanshire,  hooted  and  jeered  at  by 
urchins. 

When  he  reached  the  familiar  close  in  Cotton  Street, 
he  saw  with  a  pang  that  the  window  was  dark.  It 
made  him  think  of  the  blind  man.    He  led  the  pony 


BARNACLES  357 

through  the  close,  and  tethering  it  to  the  railing  went 
up  the  stair. 

The  door  was  locked. 

*  Skelly,'  he  cried,  with  a  trembling  voice,  *  are  you 
in?' 

Silence  like  the  grave  reigned.  In  it  Barnacles 
heard  the  beating  of  his  own  heart.  He  knew  that 
the  room  was  cold  and  deserted  and  full  of  darkness. 
The  pony  whinnied  below.  At  the  sound  Barnacles 
was  about  to  turn  away,  when  the  other  door  in  the 
passage  opened. 

*  Wha  's  there  ?  '  came  a  suspicious  voice. 
'  It 's  me,  Barnacles.' 

The.  tap-tapping  of  the  blind  man's  stick  came 
nearer. 

*  Whaur  are  ye  ?  ' 

*  Here,'  said  Barnacles. 

*  Are  ye  wantin'  Skelly  ?  ' 

*  Yes  ;  where  are  they  gone  to  ? ' 

*  The  auld  man  's  awa  to  the  Happy  Land.' 
Barnacles  leaned  against  the  wall,  breathing  heavily. 

*  I  wish  I  had  never  gone  away,'  he  whispered. 
Death  had  stolen  a  march  on  him. 

'  It 's  a'  ane,'  answered  the  blind  man,  *  daith  wadna 
be  pit  aff.' 

*  Where  is  Skelly  and  wee  Kitchener  ?  ' 

*  They  Ve  flitted.' 

*  Where  ? '  asked  Barnacles,  his  heart  beating  wildly. 

*  I  don't  ken  ;  up  the  toon.' 

'  O  Ned,  Ned  !  the  door  is  shut  and  I  can't  get  in ; 
the  world  is  awful  empty  to-night,'  was  the  sobbing  cry, 
*  and  I  was  so  happy  coming  back — me  and  the  pony.' 

*  If  ye  like  ye  can  bide  here,'  said  blin'  Ned. 


358  BARNACLES 

*  Thank  you,  my  friend  ;  if  all  else  fails  I  '11  gladly 
come  and  make  my  bed  with  you.' 

'  Ye  're  welcome,  Barnacles.' 

And  Barnacles  felt  the  hand  of  the  blind  man  steal 
out  and  touch  him. 

As  he  was  stumbling  down  the  stairs,  and  choking 
back  the  swelling  sobs,  bUn'  Ned  cried  : 

'  The  auld  man's  jaicket  is  in  the  poliss  office.' 

The  hurried  stick  tap-tapped  along  the  lobby  in 
flight,  and  a  door  was  slammed. 

But  Barnacles  had  not  heard.  He  unloosed  the 
pony,  and  set  off  for  Castlehead.  .  .  . 

He  tethered  it  badly  to  the  handle  of  the  wooden 
door  in  the  wall,  for  his  hands  were  trembling 
violently. 

The  next  moment  he  stood,  breathing  rapidly,  in  the 
moon-flooded  garden  looking  at  the  house.  It  had  that 
solemn  aspect  of  hewn  stone  which  is  inhabited,  as  if 
the  beings  behind  its  walls  breathed  into  the  dead 
stone  something  of  the  mystery  of  their  own  lives. 

There  was  a  light  in  one  of  the  lower  windows,  which 
was  open  a  little  at  the  top,  breathing  in  the  bland 
night.  As  Barnacles'  footsteps  crunched  on  the  gravel, 
a  shadow  was  thrown  on  the  blind.  It  darkened  the 
window  a  moment  and  disappeared.  Barnacles  watched 
the  window,  his  heart  fuU  of  crying.  Perhaps  she 
would  sing  to-night.  Her  voice  would  take  the  sting 
out  of  life.  As  he  waited  the  door  opened  and  he  saw 
her  white  head  and  eyes  full  of  alarm  against  the  light 
which  streamed  from  within.  He  stood  petrified, 
drinking  in  her  loveliness.  It  was  like  the  sunset  light 
which  came  up  to  him  from  the  river  and  the  windows 
of  the  town.    Doves  were  about  her  headi 


BARNACLES  359 

*  Is  any  one  there  ? '  and  as  she  spoke  her  eyes  fell 
on  the  tall  form.  She  said  no  more,  but  gathering  up 
her  skirt  in  her  hand  ran  down  the  steps  to  where  he 
was. 

Barnacles'  soul  melted  away.  Home  was  in  her 
presence  ;  love  was  in  her  eyes. 

*  Barnacles  !    Barnacles  !  ' 

It  was  like  a  maternal  voice  from  the  spheres  of  God. 

'  I  could  not  help  it,'  he  sobbed ;  *  I  had  to  come — the 
house  was  empty — my  heart  was  breaking.'  He  fell 
on  his  knees  with  his  forehead  touching  her  skirt. 

For  a  moment  she  looked  down  at  him,  then  put  a 
hand  lightly  on  his  shoulder.  He  quivered  at  the 
touch. 

'  Rise,'  she  whispered. 

Barnacles  caught  her  hand,  and  mingled  his  silent 
tears  and  kisses  there.  She  left  her  hand  with  him, 
as  if  he  were  poiu'ing  balm  upon  it. 

*  Are  you  better  now  ? '  she  asked  in  a  low  voice. 

*  Let  me  stay,'  he  said,  *  a  little  time  and  I  will  be 
healed  of  all.' 

She  bent  over  him.  '  Do  you  not  know  ?  '  she 
whispered  in  a  sad  voice. 

A  dull  pain  entered  his  breast  for  the  sadness  that 
was  in  her  voice. 

*  What  is  it  ?  '  he  groaned ;  *  have  you  a  fresh  grief  ? ' 

*  He  is  dead.'     A  shudder  passed  through  her  body. 
'  Dead  ? '  he  echoed ;  *  is  he  dead  ? '  and  he  rose  to 

his  feet. 

She  nodded,  unable  to  speak. 

*  I  did  not  come  because  of  that ;  I  did  not  know  ;  I 
thought  if  I  heard  you  sing,  here,  outside  your  window 
— ^the  world  was  so  empty  to-night.' 


360  BARNACLES 

Her  eyes,  deep  as  the  sea,  were  growing  misty  before 
his  gaze, 

*  I  have  been  waiting  for  you  to  come,'  she  said 
slowly. 

All  at  once  something  that  was  full  of  desolation  and 
death  burst  inside  him,  and  its  intolerable  weight 
vanished  like  mist.  '  I  have  been  in  misery  and  in 
great  joy — God  could  not  calm  my  heart — ^it  was  kill- 
ing me.'  His  voice  was  shaking  with  tears.  '  I  wanted 
to  bear  your  sorrow — ^the  pain  of  it  would  have  saved 
me.' 

*  My  sorrow  is  all  gone,'  she  said. 

*  You  are  the  end  of  all  my  wandering.'  He  drew 
a  deep  breath.  '  I  have  loved  you — ^long  ago  I  loved 
you.' 

*  Love  me,  love  me  tiU  you  die,'  she  breathed. 

*  For  ever — all  my  life.'  He  took  her  hands  in  his.  As 
she  yielded  them,  on  her  face  shone  the  effulgence  of  a 
soul  whose  holy  desire  is  at  last  fulfilled.  It  was  the 
face  of  one  who  was  hearing  that  for  which  she  had 
long  been  listening.  It  had  the  faint  swooning  aspect 
which  comes  but  rarely,  and  only  when  the  long  secret 
dream  of  a  woman's  heart  has  blossomed  into  reaUty. 

The  sight  of  her  eyes  shining  with  an  ecstasy  un- 
namable,  and  of  the  smile  that  was  gathering,  like 
love's  harvester,  aU  the  fruit  of  dreams  and  hopes  sown 
with  tears  in  the  past,  struck  a  silence  through  the  soul 
of  Barnacles.  Great  clear  drops  began  to  roll  down 
his  cheeks. 

*  Those  tears  will  not  stay  in  my  heart,'  he  sobbed. 
*  You  are  all  precious  for  ever  and  ever.' 

*  For  ever  and  ever,'  she  answered  joyously.  Her 
joy  like  a  river  full  of  golden  light  was  pouring  through 


BARNACLES  361 

his  being.  He  leaned  nearer  and  nearer  to  those  eyes 
of  dark  lustre — ^nearer  and  nearer,  gazing  in  at  them, 
till  he  laid  his  mouth  on  her  half-parted  lips.  At  the 
kiss  she  drew  her  hands  from  his  and  flung  them  round 
his  neck. 

Two  hours  later  he  knocked  at  a  door  in  George 
Street. 

*  Come  in,'  said  a  well-known  voice,  *  if  ye  're  no'  the 
factor.' 

Barnacles  entered. 

Skelly,  who  was  bending  over  a  piece  of  mechanism, 
looked  up,  and  when  he  saw  Barnacles  he  dropped  the 
piece  of  steel  and  jumped. 

'  Holy  sailor,  is  this  you  ?  Where  have  you  come 
from  ? ' 

'  From  the  Highlands,'  answered  Barnacles.  *  I 
brought  a  pony  for  you.' 

*  And  whaur  is  't  ?  ' 

*  I  don't  know.  I  tied  it  to  Mrs.  Normanshire's  door, 
and  when  I  came  back  it  was  gone.  I  'm  afraid  1 
didn't  tie  the  knot  properly.* 

Skelly  forgot  to  be  sarcastic. 

'  Did  ye  see  her  ?  '  he  asked  eagerly. 

'  I  have  come  from  there.  She  told  me  where  to 
find  you.' 

For  since  the  funeral  of  his  father  Skelly  was  gardener 
and  chauffeur  to  Mrs.  Normanshire  ;  and  wee  Kitchener 
lived  under  the  ample  wing  of  Mrs.  Beezle.  Barnacles, 
to  his  great  joy,  had  learned  these  things. 

'  Then  ye  ken,*  said  Skelly. 

*  What  ? ' 

*  Aboot  yon  bully  in  Glesca ;   naethin*  left  o'  him 


»62  BARNACLES 

but  a  rickle  o'  banes.    He  burned  the  hoose  ower  his 
ain  heid,  an'  burned  his  brither  alang  wi'  him.' 
Barnacles  shuddered. 

*  God  give  him  peace,'  he  said. 

*  It  was  the  price  o'  him  ;  if  ye  only  kent  the  ane 
hauf  o'  his  deevilry.  Bumin'  was  ower  guid  for  the 
likes  o'  him.  Ax  Mrs.  Beezle  the  history.  It  'U  gie 
ye  the  grue.' 

Barnacles  was  silent  a  moment. 

*  Don't  let  us  speak  of  it,  Skelly ;  I  saw  wee  Kitchener. 
He  is  happy  with  Mrs.  Beezle.' 

*  For  a  wee  while,'  answered  SkeUy,  smiling  shrewdly. 

*  Are  you  taking  him  away  1 ' 

'  No'  just  takin'  him  awa  a'thegither.  The  wean 's 
needin'  a  mither.'  Skelly  bent  and  picked  up  the 
fitting  of  the  motor-car  which  he  had  dropped.  When 
he  lifted  his  head  his  face  was  very  red. 

*  I  don't  understand,'  said  Barnacles ;  the  brows 
wrinkled  over  the  spectacles  in  a  puzzled  look. 

*  Dae  you  think  ye  're  the  only  ane  that 's  gaun  to 
get  mairrit  ? ' 

'  I — married.'    Barnacles'  face  flushed. 

'  Oh  !  it 's  a'  richt.  I  ken  somebody  that  was 
hauf  blin'  lookin'  for  ye.  Every  day  she  was  oot  in 
the  caur.' 

Barnacles  laid  a  trembling  arm  along  Skelly's 
shoulder,  and  said,  '  Oh,  Skelly  !  Skelly  !  her  sorrows 
are  all  over.'    The  blue  eyes  filled. 

Skelly  shook  the  arm. 

*  Ye  '11  be  kissin'  me  next,'  he  laughed. 
Barnacles  looked  steadfastly  at  him. 

*  Tell  me,'  he  said,  *  who  are  you  going  to  marry  ?  ' 

*  Hersel,  if  ye  want  to  ken — Mrs.  Beezle.' 


BARNACLES  363 

Barnacles'  face  was  radiant. 

*  A  good  woman,  Skelly ;  you  are  hajjpy.' 

*  Ay  1  just  maybe  ay  ;  I  'm  having  a  daisy  o'  a 
time.  I  'm  up  the  richt  lum  this  time,  Barnacles. 
She  wadna  gie  up  wee  Kitchener  ;  sae  I  just  telt  her 
she  'd  hae  to  tak  me  as  weel ;  that  I  couldna  be  daein' 
withoot  the  wean — iB  a  joke,  ye  ken ;  an',  holy  saUor ! 
afore  I  could  draw  another  breath,  was  her  airms  no' 
roond  my  neck,  an'  her  thankin'  God,  an'  the  caul'  sweet 
breakin'  oot  on  me.     Ay  !  I  doot  I  'm  up  the  richt  lum.* 

*  God  give  you  and  wee  Kitchener  a  rich  blessing/ 
answered  Barnacles. 

*  Thank  ye,  Barnacles,'  said  Skelly ;  *  we  'U  maybe 
need  it.' 

Nevertheless,  his  face  was  wrinkled  with  smiles. 

Barnacles  and  his  wife  had  returned  from  the 
banker's,  and  were  standing  at  the  bay  window  in 
the  dining-room,  looking  out  on  the  star-lit  garden. 
Barnacles  was  silent.  He  was  thinking  of  the  rainbow 
road  in  the  skies,  over  which  he  had  seen  a  woman  in 
white  pass. 

'  Barnacles  ' — her  arms  were  around  his  neck — *  I 
don't  know  what 's  come  over  me.  The  house  is  full 
of  voices  to-night,  wee  voices.  I  heard  them  on  the 
stair  ;  I  heard  them  in  our  room.  They  were  all 
crying  to  me  to  go  and  kiss  you.' 

Barnacles  put  his  arms  around  his  wife. 

*  It 's  not  voices,'  he  said,  '  it 's  just  your  own  heart 
broken  up  for  joy  and  gladness  into  wee  angels,  and 
they  're  flying  aU  over  the  house.  There  !  I  '11  catch 
one  on  your  lips.' 

He  stooped  and  kissed  her  ;  and  then  he  said  : 


864  BARNACLES 

*  I  '11  tell  you  something  that  you  won't  understand.' 
'  Yes,'  she  whispered ;  *  what  is  it  ? ' 

'  These  wee  angels  have  come  over  a  rainbow  road 
from  a  place  beyond  the  world  and  the  moon.' 

*  No,'  she  pondered,  '  I  don't  understand,  except 
that  it 's  beautiful ' — she  was  silent  a  moment ;  he  felt 
her  drawing  closer  to  him — '  and  I  will  tell  you  some- 
thing you  don't  understand.' 

'  Yes,'  he  echoed  her ;  *  what  is  it  1  ' 

*  You  are  my  knight.  For  a  long  time  I  saw  you 
far  away  through  the  trees  on  a  white  horse ;  but  I 
could  not  escape ;  the  forest  was  between  us.'  He  felt 
a  shudder  go  through  her.  '  There  was  blood  on  the 
daisies  ;  but  now  I  have  reached  you,  my  knight  on 
the  White  Horse.' 

*  I  am  a  sorry  knight,'  he  answered,  *  and  you  have 
not  reached  me.     It  is  I  who  came  to  you  on  no  white ' 
horse,  but  on  a  brown  pony.' 

'  Say  what  you  will,  you  are  what  I  said.  You  do 
not  understand,  but  I  know — I  know.'  Her  dark  eyes 
glowed  upon  him ;  her  arms  tightened  round  his  neck. 

So  this  forlorn  Barnacles  had  a  good  violin  and  a 
loving  wife.  Every  one  present  at  the  marriage  had  a 
wrong  opinion  of  him,  except  Skelly  and  his  own  wife. 

Miss  Jacobina  was  angry,  because  he  had  promised 
to  be  a  crank  and  had  failed.  Mrs.  Beezle  adored  him, 
because  she  thought  he  was  a  sage.  The  banker's 
wife  called  him  one  of  God's  innocents  ;  and  the  banker 
gave  him  for  a  wedding  present  a  solid  silver  sheep. 
His  father  thought  he  needed  looking  after. 

Only  the  love  of  his  wife  knew,  and  the  friendship 
of  Skelly  understood,  the  man  Barnacles.    He  is  a  son 


BARNACLES  365 

of  to-morrow  far  away  yet  on  the  horizon  of  his 
country,  and  invisible  behind  the  clouds  of  her  smoke  ; 
inaudible  for  the  thundering  of  her  anvils,  the  roar  of 
her  guns,  the  racketing  of  her  bridges,  the  chinking  of 
the  coin  of  her  tellers. 

Out  of  the  far  distances  he  comes  slowly,  with  a 
savour  of  eternal  youth  on  his  countenance,  and  the 
freshness  of  Nature  in  his  eyes — guileless  but  indomit- 
able. He  is  sprung  of  a  hardy  folk  who,  once  poor,  and 
now  growing  rich,  shall  yet  learn  to  place  the  soul 
above  all  else,  and  seek  with  their  native  genius  the 
things  that  are  lovely  and  of  excellent  report. 

I  know  not  what  travaU  this  folk  shall  suffer  first ; 
what  trials  they  shall  endure  ;  what  manifold  wander- 
ings of  body  and  of  spirit  they  shall  be  called  on  to 
undertake  till  they  are  bom  again.  Yet  this  chUd  of 
the  future  comes,  his  head  in  the  winds,  his  ear  given  to 
beUs  and  to  music,  with  a  careless  strength,  because 
the  torch  of  righteousness  is  in  his  hand,  and  in  his 
soul  a  divinity  that  will  bind  the  SkeUys  of  the  land 
to  his  heart  in  lasting  friendship,  and  which  wUl  find 
joy  not  only  in  his  beloved  but  in  the  consciousness 
that  he  is  loving  with  a  love  that  is  stronger  than 
death. 


THE   END 


Printed  bj  T.  and  A.  CoNSTikBLB,  Printers  to  His  Majeaty 
at  the  Bdinbnrgh  University  Press 


University  of  Caiifornia 

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